A Tactical Reassessment
by Sir Yeetus Deletus
Summary: Betrayed and forgotten, Ghost and Roach wake up in an unfamiliar world with more questions than answers. Dust? Faunus? Huntsmen and Huntresses? How long will it take before two operators from another world get wrapped up in a secret ancient war that they have nothing to do with? Evidently, not long. It all starts with a Dusty, Old Crow.
1. Ground Zero

**A/N: Issue w/ original had to re-upload.**

VVVVV

Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley awoke with a start. His eyes shot open, wide and alert, scanning his surroundings. He squeezed them shut as bright rays of morning sunlight penetrated into them. His hands curled into fists, then uncurled as feeling returned to his body. As consciousness grew, a myriad of sensations came all at once, nearly overloading his senses.

The operative took a deep breath and sat up gingerly, wincing at the brief ache in his head. He could feel his clothes rubbing against his body, as well as the unmistakable sensation of sitting on grass. He could also feel the trademark skull-balaclava he wore, as well as the red-tinted sunglasses shielding his eyes, and the dapper communications headset over his ears.

He could feel, which meant he was alive. But where was he?

The lieutenant looked around to find that he was surrounded by a lush forest, a thick canopy hanging overhead through which only a few rays of sunlight could penetrate.

He had all of his combat equipment with him, from the tactical vest he wore to his assault rifle of choice, the Remington ACR, slung over his shoulder. His memories were a bit fuzzy though. What happened?

The last thing he remembered was being in the Caucasus Mountains at the Georgia-Russian border, evacuating the area with Roach, meeting up with Shepherd, and...

Shepherd had betrayed them.

The lieutenant felt his fists clench as a surge of anger coursed through him. He shut his eyes tightly as his eyebrows knit into a glare, the memories of what had occurred flowing back.

The mission had been going smoothly, up until Makarov's entourage came to clean house. As soon as Strike Team finished downloading Makarov's files, they booked it out of there under heavy fire from all sides. He remembered seeing Ozone getting shot in the back and Scarecrow getting blown to bits by mortar fire. He wanted to go back for them, but he knew that there was no chance in saving them. That didn't stop the guilt and regret from welling up inside him, though. Their deaths had been completely unnecessary and totally avoidable. If only he had been quicker, or a bit more prepared, he might have been able to save them. They were good men. They deserved better.

It wouldn't have mattered in the end though.

Shepherd's betrayal was proof of that.

Ghost had been dragging an injured Roach to the LZ when the good general decided to make his move. The bastard shot Roach, and before Ghost could pull his own trigger in defense, he had been shot as well. He went out like a light. It had been so quick, so nonchalant. So uncaring for his own men.

Ghost was disgusted.

_Couldn't even finish the job, wanker?_ he thought bitterly, his teeth clenched. Why go to such great lengths to betray him if he wasn't even going to finish him off? Why leave him alive, and kill everybody else? Perhaps Ghost got 'lucky'.

After everything they've done, after everything the 141 has done, sticking their necks out for the greater good, traveling to hell and back on a day-by-day basis to preserve the peace, sacrificing brothers-in-arms, friends and families, running through the fire and the ice to keep the world safe, protecting the populace from things they couldn't protect themselves from, from things they didn't even _know_ they needed protection from, this is how they are repaid?

_Rubbish._

A burning hate began to build up within the lieutenant, the same hate that had risen from the past, when his life had been nothing but the brutal manifestation of a real nightmare. The hate that came when he had lost everything to the bastards who had betrayed him the first time—his own teammates. The hate that forged his revenge story, the one in which Simon Riley and all that he had loved died, and the one in which Ghost was born. The same hate that made him who was today—the nightmare of the terrorists', the intangible supernatural force, Ghost. That same hate rose within him, ready to burst within a moment's notice.

Then, the hate dispersed, as did the fury and rage that came with it. All that was left was the misery of a man forced to relive his past, to relive the haunting day when he had been cast aside by those he had trusted. The darkness surrounded him, pulling him down into the depths, surrounding his heart in a glacier of cold, unforgiving pain.

Their voices...he could hear them. That day on Christmas Eve, the one day when they had needed him most, and he hadn't been there. When they cried for help in desperation, nobody came. Nobody heard them. Nobody cared.

Ghost cringed, shoving the rising emotions down. He'd dealt with it once. He'll deal with it again. And when he's done with that, he'll personally slit Shepherd's throat, even if he needs to fight through an entire bloody army to do so. He did it to Roba. He'll do it again.

You can't break what's already been broken.

Enough mucking around now. Where was he?

The area around him was covered in nothing but trees, trees, and more fucking trees. None of them were the coniferous trees that one would find in the Caucasus Mountains, though. It was also way too warm in this area for him to be anywhere remotely close to the mountains. Just how far away was he dumped?

Ghost felt his eyes being drawn to the left. He spotted a figure in the grass, laying face-down on the ground.

It was very familiar, donned in full tactical gear, including a fire-resistant jacket with the distinct logo of Task Force 141 embroidered on the side. Even more distinct was the headgear; that same helmet he had seen many times, worn by one of his longtime friends and greatest allies, one he'd fought alongside with for years.

His heart dropped at the sight.

"Roach?" he muttered. Before he knew it, he had rushed over and was crouching next to his friend's body. "You better not have kicked the bucket, mate!"

He shoved his fingers against the man's neck. There was a steady pulse. Ghost groaned out a sigh of relief. He was still alive.

Long-story short, Roach was a sergeant that had worked with Ghost since 2011. The man was always quiet and never spoke at all, but not out of choice. Thing is, Roach was rendered mute when his Larynx had been heavily damaged during an op quite a while back. It was a question of whether not he was still legally allowed to be in the Task Force. Probably not, but with the 141's top secret nature, it really didn't matter.

After confirming that Roach was alive, the lieutenant checked the man for injuries. His eyes widened when he saw that Roach was clean; there was evidence of entrance and exit wounds, but instead of a royally bloody hole in his flesh, there was only a scar where he had been hit, as well as some torn cloth from his vest and jacket. It was almost as if he hadn't been shot at all, but Ghost clearly remembered Roach getting shot...as well as himself.

It was at this point that Ghost realized he didn't feel any of the excruciating pain that came with getting shot. There was no sensation of molten lead searing through his insides, no abhorrent agony that came when bone was shattered, nor the feeling of the bullet resting inside him at all.

Now that he thought about it, _nothing_ felt normal. He felt incomplete, like a core existence of his being was missing, and not just emotionally, but physically as well.

His whole body felt like it had been changed, morphed in a way, yet still the same. He felt...emptier. His fingers were the same but different at the same time. His chest felt lighter than usual—almost nonexistant. His legs felt like they had been severed and reconnected several times over. And...since when did he go bald?

His hair! Where was his hair!? It's vanished! He wasn't balding, was he? He's only thirty-five for fucks' sake!

The lieutenant's hand shot to his head. He massaged his temple in a circular motion, perplexed by this conundrum. He hadn't felt any of these abnormalities earlier. What was going on?

After a moment of hesitance, Ghost decided to focus on the more important task at the moment.

The lieutenant jostled the sergeant on the shoulder rather violently, as he always did whenever one of the operatives back in Hereford or Afghanistan made the mistake of oversleeping. Under his intense shaking, Roach stirred.

"Gary, get up!" Ghost whispered intensely. "C'mon mate, we've got to—"

The sergeant he had shaken so violently turned to him, and Ghost got a full view of the man's face.

Behind the sergeant's tactical goggles, where his usual brown eyes should be, were two large, yellow orbs that had neither irises nor pupils, only thousands of tiny ommatidia receptors. Breaching the top of his helmet were a pair of long antennae that bobbed up and down as if they had a mind of their own. Ripping through the operator's own balaclava were two tiny bone-like structures on either side of his mouth—mandibles.

Ghost found himself frozen at the sight.

Roach on the other hand, froze when he saw the lieutenant.

Both operators raised a single finger in unison, and slowly, shakily pointed at the other.

"R-Roach...Gary, y-you...I...I don't think..." he stuttered, pausing when he saw the sergeant pointing to _his_ face. "What?"

Ghost's hand shot up to his visage. And then he realized.

In a flash, the lieutenant yanked his sunglasses off and twirled them in his hand to look at his reflection. Though his whole head was covered by the balaclava he wore, he could still see his eyes. Eyes that were no longer there.

The eyes of the reflection that stared back at him were nothing but empty sockets, save for the small silver lights that glowed in each one. Where flesh should have been, right between the _sockets_ of his eyes, was instead smooth, white bone.

His jaw dropped. He turned his attention to one of his gloved hands. He shakily reached for his glove, burning in anticipation, and after a moment of hesitation, he pulled it off. A skeletal hand revealed itself to him. Skeletal not in that it was skinny, but in that it was _literally_ the hand of a skeleton.

"Oh you've _got_ to be shitting me—"

VVVVV

"No, mate, I haven't the bloodiest clue what the fuck happened to you...or me... But I may have an idea," Ghost replied to Roach's panicky gestures, shoving a piece of foliage out of his way. They'd been moving north for almost an hour now, quickly and quietly, but Roach hasn't calmed down since then.

There were too many things to factor in, too many things to worry about. For one, where were they? Based on the environment as well as the lack of any traceable disturbance of any kind, he was led to believe that one, they were no longer in the Caucasus Mountains, and two, _nobody_ dumped them there. They were _just there._ As if they'd always been there since the beginning of time or some malarky like that.

Next, where the hell were they to go? There were no landmarks or anything of the sort indicating civilization at all. They could be dozens of miles away from any sort of infrastructure at all.

Last, but most certainly not the least, what the _fuck_ happened to them? Roach had been turned into a twisted version of his namesake, a half-cockroach half-human _thing_. He had the antennae, eyes, and mandibles of a cockroach, and although he _should_ be mute, he could now make these weird chirping sounds. At least the chirping sound was a benefit; in the past, when Roach got separated from the team, he'd always be radio silent on account that he couldn't speak. Now, he could communicate 'verbally' in some way. It should be noted that the sergeant was a lot more...twitchy, as if he was paranoid or ready to jump at a moment's notice. Knowing the anatomy of a cockroach, he probably was.

Ghost on the other hand—his sudden transformation made no sense at all! He was a skeleton! A fucking skeleton! How the hell could he even move or feel!? He had no muscles to support the bones, none of the elastic tissue that actually allowed bones to move in the first place! On the contrary, he could still move _exactly_ the way he'd moved when he did have muscles. He had no blood, could breath but had no use for the oxygen, had no eyes but could see, no nose but could breath, no organs, could still _talk_ without his vocal cords, and could still swallow even though he had no saliva.

What was even weirder was the _feeling_. Despite having no eyelids, he still had the sensation of closing his eyes, which were little more than small lights that would briefly disappear whenever he 'blinked'. Despite having no tongue nor lips of any sort, he could still 'use' them to make 'T', 'L', and 'M' sounds, even if he couldn't actually feel them. His ears were nonexistent, but he could hear everything loud and clear—normally, might he add, even though the absence of such appendages should more or less fuck up the way he perceived sound from different directions. Oh yeah, and he no longer needed to open his mouth to speak properly at all.

Something occurred to Ghost, something that seemed much more plausible now that these abnormalities, for lack of a better word, had been unveiled. Lacking eyelids, Ghost couldn't really narrow his eyes, but he tried to anyways.

Ghost gave his silent friend as apologetic of a look as he could give. "Mate...I think we're dead." He said it plainly and simply, not sugarcoating it in anyway.

Roach gave no outward sign that he acknowledged what he said, save for his mandibles clicking together softly. Perhaps the man didn't hear him, or maybe he just didn't' believe it. Ghost couldn't blame him.

Even with all of the evidence before him, the lieutenant still couldn't believe it.

After a solid minute of silence, Ghost continued. "I thought it was just a bad job at first. I thought they'd been careless and forgot to put a bullet in my skull, the tossers." He stared at his gloved hand—his skeletal hand. "I'm not so sure anymore."

He heard Roach sigh from his left. Looks like the man really was listening. He didn't sound so surprised. If anything, the sergeant sounded resigned, as if he was already sure of it. It made Ghost thoughtful.

"...What happened Roach?" he asked. "After I went out?" He looked over to the sergeant, who seemed to shiver in place. He made a series of gestures, intricate in detail, all of which Ghost understood. As Roach explained what happened, Ghost felt himself growing angry again.

"He...he burned you alive?" At Roach's shaky nod, Ghost nearly lost it. "That bastard! I'll put a bullet right between his old—" He clenched his already clenched teeth harder. The fire in his eyes burned brighter for a moment before they died down again. "...Shepherd really did do us in, didn't he?"

He let out a sigh. "...I've been dead for years, Roach. One half of me died with Roba. The other went down with Sparks and Washington...For the longest time, I've been the dead, broken husk of Simon Riley. I was dead, but I was a dead man with a mission."

There was a long pause. "I couldn't grieve, but I could do what needed to be done. And what needed to be done was the massacre of every bastard out there who thought they owned the world. People like Roba, Makarov, and...Shepherd." He chuckled wryly to himself. "My job was to haunt them. Like a ghost. I'm sure you know how I got this name." His skeletal fist clenched harder. Had he any flesh, he was sure his hands would have been bleeding. "But I guess that's not happening this time."

Roach nodded solemnly, sympathetic for the lieutenant. Besides himself, Roach knew of only three other people that knew Ghost's true past, one being Soap, another being Price, and the last being...Shepherd.

See, Shepherd _knew_ what Ghost had been through, all the betrayals he'd suffered, the lost of his loved ones, and the lost of his team. He knew about the four month recovery therapy that Ghost had gone through, as well as the year long emotional reconciliation and counseling that he never finished. Despite this, Shepherd had done the worst thing he could have to Ghost: he triggered an emotional relapse via the repeat of a consistent traumatic event. PTSD. Roach could only imagine what Ghost was currently going through.

A worrying thought came to mind. He nodded to Ghost in slow, deliberate way, showing signs of concern, but not for the lieutenant.

After years of experience with Roach, Ghost could tell exactly what the man was thinking.

"I...I don't know, Gary. Ozone and Scarecrow are...they're gone. I don't know about the others. We can only hope the rest of the boys back at home are okay." He bit his lip, or at least, he tried to. It resulted in his teeth clicking together oddly.

Another thing occurred to Ghost, once again having to do with their situation. "If we're dead," he started slowly, catching Roach's attention. "Does that make this purgatory?" He chuckled sardonically. "It's more colorful than I thought it'd be. Any idea why we still have our stuff though?"

Roach shrugged. He put a hand to his chin before making another series of gestures.

Ghost shrugged back. "No idea why you'd be a cockroach and I'd be a skeleton, mate. Who knows, maybe the wanker who controls this whole death thing has a sense of humor."

His silent friend tilted his head, his mandibles clicking together. He made a motion of rising from the ground, mixed with another series of gestures.

Once again, the lieutenant attempted to raise a brow. It didn't work. "Resurrection?" he asked incredulously. "You think we're still alive?" The sergeant nodded, making a so-so motion. "What? Don't tell me you think we'd been cursed to wander for the rest of eternity or some Dr. Who bollocks like that."

At Roach's nod, Ghost paused. It would certainly explain why they still had their stuff. It would also explain why purgatory was so...green. "I don't know mate. For all I know this could be some cocked-up fever dream I'm having. But if we're still on Earth, then that means Shepherd is still around...You thinking what I'm thinking, mate?"

Roach gave a resolute nod. At that, Ghost internally smirked. If they were still on Earth, then that meant they still had a chance to take the bastard general down.

"Right then, let's get moving. If we're still on Earth, then we'll reach civilization eventually. From there, we can pinpoint our location, contact Price, and set up a game plan. Until then, communications are down for us." He paused, a lingering doubt in his mind. "But, if we're not on Earth and this really is purgatory, then...bugger."

The duo went silent and continued to walk unabated, one of them, a new breed of faunus never seen before by the fantastical world they had unknowingly arrived upon, and the other, a pile of living bones, strongly held together by ancient arcane forces that had long since disappeared from this _Remnant_ of a world, the forces of _magic_.

So, their journey into the vast unknown began.

VVVVV

Ghost stopped in his tracks when he saw a figure up ahead. "Target, 30 meters, dead ahead."

Roach instinctively stopped next to him, raising his M4A1 in alarm. His antennae bobbed as a shift occurred, danger signals being sent directly to his brain. Oblivious to this, Ghost held a hand up, signifying for the sergeant to hold fire.

The two slowly approached the figure, and as they got closer, they were able to discern the features of what vaguely looked like a wolf. Except it wasn't.

"What the bloody...?" Ghost breathed into his communications headset.

The _thing_ was massive, easily twice as large as a human, and covered in thick black fur. What looked like bones were protruding out of its back, shoulders, knees, and arms. It had large claws on both its hands and feet, and it stood hunched over, but still easily much taller and larger than Ghost, who was 6'3". Its face was protected by a large bone-like mask, and its mouth had jagged fangs jutting out in rows. Its eyes were glowing red, full of hate.

Neither operator had seen anything like it, and judging by the way it sniffed the air, prowling the clearing ahead of them, the pooch probably wasn't too friendly.

Ghost raised his rifle just in case, using his left hand to signal Roach to slowly circumvent the beast. They moved slowly and methodically, their stealth unmatched, their presence undetectable to the beast. The two stopped at a pair of trees, ever silent, and anticipating the beast's next move.

They waited with bated breaths as the creature sniffed the air, doing its damnedest to find something. The creature, on the other hand, was confused. It clearly got a whiff of something delicious earlier, perhaps a bit of self-loathing with a heaping helping of anger and hate, along with just a dash of sadness and anxiety. But now, it was all gone.

The beast was left to scratch its head. It found nothing, and, no longer interested, it turned to leave and began walking away from the site...straight towards the operators. Just their luck.

Each of its footsteps were surprisingly quiet for something so large, but even so, the operators could hear it approaching their location. Even with the small amount of light penetrating through the trees, they could still make out the beast's shadow, which grew longer as it got closer.

Ghost's eyes shifted to Roach's golden orbs, and somehow, he could tell that the man's eyes were on him. He tapped at the side of his headset, and Roach nodded.

As quietly as he could, he whispered into the comms. "_Roach, try to get around it. Use the trees when it gets closer. We've not an onion about what this thing is capable of,_" he warned.

The sergeant opted to nod rather than click his mandibles.

"_If it finds us, we'll have to engage. I've got a flashbang on standby__._"

Another nod, and the beast drew closer. If they did need to take it down, doing it quickly and quietly would have been preferred, but neither of their weapons were suppressed, so there was no point in taking a risk—with the size of that thing, it would probably take more than a few rounds to put down. Might as well shoot at it while its blind.

As the creature stepped between the two trees, both operators circled around the large trunks, moving slowly and carefully. They kept doing so, until they were finally around it.

Roach released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"_Roach, on me. Let's get out of here,_" Ghost whispered via radio. The two regrouped at the edge of the clearing, prepared to leave. "_Move._"

The beast turned around.

Unbeknownst to the two operators, the beast's eyes burned with a renewed hate. A bestial, animalistic growl escaped its throat, and the thing all but roared at them. The operators turned around, alerted.

"Shit, we're compromised!"

Without hesitation, Ghost tossed a waiting flashbang straight at the creature. The following flash-and-bang both deafened and blinded it, and it swung wildly in random directions in a mix of pain, confusion, and anger.

"Slot the bastard!"

The operators opened fired, their minds hard-wired to aim for the head and center-mass, avoiding the bone-like structures, except for the faceplate. 5.56x45 mm NATO rounds accompanied by 6.8mm SPC rounds were unleashed upon the beast in a wave of searing lead. The rifles in the operators' hands popped deafeningly loudly, much louder than any other rifle on this world had the right to be.

Their jacketed bullets moved at supersonic speed, the kinetic energy from such movement impacting on the dark fur and flesh of the beast, putting holes in it and tearing chunks away in some cases. Cavities of empty space were made deep within the beast's insides, the heat generated from the combination of friction and various smokeless powders burning at its insides.

In a blind rage and nearly already dead, the beast leapt forward, straight at the two operatives.

"HIT THE DECK!"

The members of Task Force 141 dropped to the floor in a flash, and the creature soared over them, flailing wildly. A black substance oozed from its hole-riddled body, spattering on both operatives as the creature smashed headfirst _through_ a tree, its weighty frame falling into a roll as its momentum was ripped away.

"WATCH OUT!" Ghost yelled, his eyes wide as one of the trees came down on Roach. He needn't have worried.

The sudden shift in air current pushed against Roach's antennae, shocking him into action. Faster than he'd ever moved before, the sergeant rolled to the side almost in a blur, as if every fast-twitch muscle in his body had been activated at once, and the tree smashed into the ground next to him, leaves being torn off of it, branches snapping, and a cloud of dust being kicked into the air.

"Shit!" Ghost stood and vaulted over the fallen tree, landing on the other side of his friend. He carefully helped the sergeant up.

"Dammit, Roach, that thing never should've seen us," he admonished.

Roach clicked his mandibles twice, a wide-eyed, unbelieving look in those yellow orbs.

"Whatever, let's just not let that happen again, yeah?"

After recovering from their momentary shock, the two operatives turned to the beast, which was now nothing but a hole-riddled corpse on the ground.

The lieutenant let out a deep, stressed sigh. "Bloody hell mate, ever seen a wolf like that?"

Roach could only shrug in incredulity. Whatever the hell it was, it _certainly_ wasn't from Earth. That thing had taken so many rounds, and even when it had upwards of two dozen holes in it, it leapt at them unimpeded with such speed that either operator was lucky to be alive...if they even _were_ alive.

The sergeant watched as his commanding officer cautiously creeped over to the downed creature, following behind at a short distance. Both operators snapped their rifles up when the thing began moving again.

A dark mist rose from its body, and the whole carcass began to...disintegrate?

"What the hell?" Ghost commented for the umpteenth time, lowering his rifle as the creature's body melted away. "Mate...I'm inclined to believe we ain't on Earth anymore."

The sergeant gave the man a sarcastic look. _No shit, Sherlock,_ he wanted to retort. He settled for clicking his mandibles once—a weird sensation that would take getting used to.

Ghost was silent for a moment, his sockets glowing behind his sunglasses softly. The lights dimmed for only a fraction of a second, indicting that he'd blinked. "Roach, how many rounds did that thing take?"

Both operatives did a quick magazine check. Roach had seventeen left in his mag while Ghost had nineteen. Seeing this, Ghost dragged a hand up his masked cranium dubiously.

"Twenty-three rounds...Christ on a bicycle..." He stood there, thinking for a moment. "We ever come up against one of them again, aim for the legs first. That fucking thing can _jump._ We immobilize it, and getting past it'll be cakewalk, yeah?"

Roach nodded at his commanding officer's deduction. The man was observant as usual.

"Right then, let's move before any more of these wankers—"

The forest seemed to shake as a cacophonous orchestra of roars and howls burst from all directions. There must have been tens—no, hundreds of them. Both operators were suddenly very aware of the clearing they stood in the middle of.

They looked at each other, both of their eyes wide—in Ghost's case, his lights burning brighter.

"DOUBLE TIME, LET'S GO!" Ghost barked, waving his arm to the north. The duo took off, running at Olympic sprinter speeds. Their hands clutched their weapons tightly in anticipation, the sound of the wind howling in their ears, the feral growls in the distance not too far behind.

Roach's antennae went wild, sensing things he'd never been able to sense before, his vision hundreds of times sharper and more perceptive than should be. He could feel the shifts in the air, _smell_ the beasts that drew closer. They were getting close. Dangerously close.

There was a sudden spike in his awareness, his antennae alerting him to something coming. He raised his rifle mid-sprint, preemptively aimed at a bush on the left. His awareness was rewarded when one of those things jumped out at him from the foliage, though this one was a bit smaller than the other one.

He made to depress the trigger only to hear two loud bangs that were not his own. Ghost had somehow beaten him to it, it seemed, even though Roach _knew_ where the thing was coming from. His respect for the lieutenant grew a bit more.

Roach was forced to duck as the larger-than-man-sized creature flew over him, crashing into the dirt behind him. The sergeant didn't look back, but based on the thing's pained cries becoming more distant, it seemed Ghost's tactic was working.

There was another spike in Roach's awareness, and this time, he didn't hesitate. He looked over his shoulder to see one of the wolf-things gaining on them. The rifle in his hands discharged three times, one shot hitting the torso, two in the legs. The creature roared as it faltered in its run, and in a last ditch effort, it leaped forward with all of its might.

Just as it was about to swipe at them however, the two operators jumped over a fallen tree in their path. The large creature rammed head first into the tree, sending splinters everywhere as the wood was torn apart under its weight. Helplessly, the thing bounced off of the dirt on the ground, tumbling through the air before it landed behind the operators, digging a small trench into the ground.

"Nice one, Roach!" Ghost called from ahead. "Heads up, on your three o'clock!"

Another one, this one the size of the first one they encountered, leaped into the air from afar. It flew several meters in the air, posed to land directly on top of Roach.

The sergeant sidestepped the beast, its momentum carrying it past him. Once it landed, it leaped at Roach again, swiping its large, razor-sharp claws. In a panic, Roach brought up his rifle to block. Instantly, the ACOG 4X Scope attachment on top of his rifle was turned into scrap metal and broken glass as the massive claws cleaved through it.

The breath was knocked out of him and the world spun as he was thrown back by the force of the strike, the claws nearly reaching him, but not quite, tearing a hole in his vest.

"Roach!" Ghost cried as his friend flew past him, landing in a heap on the ground. As the sergeant got to his feet, Ghost whipped around, glaring at the beast. "Fuck off!" he roared, unloading three shots into one of its legs. He fired two more at its neck for good measure.

The thing clutched at its oozing throat, but didn't go down as Ghost had hoped. It would do for now.

The lieutenant left the beast to struggle on its own, hurrying over to Roach just as the man got to his feet. "C'mon son, we're getting out of here."

The sound of thundering footsteps coming from behind ushered them forward. Roach glanced over his shoulder to see three more of the beasts bounding after them. Thinking on his feet, he nudged Ghost on the shoulder as they ran.

The lieutenant looked over to see Roach pulling one of his two flashbangs from his torn vest. "Let em' have it!"

With no hesitation, Roach pulled the pin and tossed the banger straight up. The flashbang worked its magic, releasing a head-ache inducing bang and a blinding flash of light.

While both of the operators were temporarily deafened, the couldn't say the same about being blinded, having ran past. For the massive wolf-like creatures, however, all three of them were stopped in their tracks, forced to shield their eyes or claw at their ears aggravatingly as the banger went off.

But even as those three aggressors were temporarily neutralized, five more took their place, relentlessly howling and roaring at the operatives as they gave chase.

"Dammit, we ain't gonna outrun these things, mate!" Ghost shouted, glancing behind them. "We've got to immobilize them. Take them two on your side, I've got these three. Go!"

In tandem, the two operators stopped back to back, aiming at their respective enemies. Roach unleashed four shots into the closer one's left leg. The the thing howled and halted its movement, allowing Roach to focus on the other one. Quick on the trigger, he unloaded the rest of his magazine into both of the other's legs, a total of eight shots. It collapsed on the spot, and Roach glanced to his teammate to see that the man had already dealt with two of them.

The third however was larger, and bonier. It raised an armored paw, blocking the lieutenant's shots. Then, it shot forward, aiming to impale the lieutenant.

"Oh, fuck me," Ghost uttered as he rolled to the side, barely avoiding the strike...except it wasn't aimed for Ghost.

Roach let out a silent scream as the creature _tore__ his entire left arm off._ The sergeant stared, horrified as a familiar red liquid spurted from his shoulder. His gaze turned to the creature, and he witnessed, petrified as it swallowed the appendage whole. He froze when the thing turned back to him.

"GET OUT OF THERE!"

But was too late.

The beast smashed him in the side almost nonchalantly, and he was thrown straight into the trunk of a tree. The back of his helmet smashed against the bark, saving him from what surely would have been severe brain damage. Even so, the sergeant's vision blurred a bit, a burst of pain shooting up his back and his arms. In a vain attempt to numb the pain, the sergeant clutched his bleeding stump.

"ROACH!" he heard the lieutenant roar. He craned his neck to look at the man, who was staring at him with worry, his sockets burning brightly behind those sunglasses. Roach turned back to the beast that had ripped him apart, and glared. The thing merely huffed, and began stomping over to him.

Before it could come any closer however, a gunshot was heard. The large creature staggered, a bullet tearing through its calf.

"Fucker!" Ghost taunted, firing round after round at the beast. His own hate rose to match it—no his hate overpowered it. After what had happened in the past, he wasn't about to lose Roach too. He wanted to hear that thing _scream_ in pain.

Anger burning in his veins, Ghost unleashed a wave of lead at the beast with impossible accuracy, nailing it in both calfs, both thighs, the biceps, center-mass, and the left eye. Each bullet tore through its muscles, unyielding in their quest to destroy. The _monster's_ glowing eye burst like a water balloon, its black blood exploding outwards. It staggered and roared in pain, swiping at the air wildly.

Ghost's rifle clicked empty after thirteen shots. Undeterred, he let it hang from its strap, pulling out his sidearm—a Glock 19. At the same time, the creature leapt upon him, pinning him to the ground.

Rather than ripping him apart though, the beast merely stared at the lieutenant as if confused. It sniffed, pondering what it had caught. This wasn't a human nor a faunus, so it wasn't food, but it was attacking, so what was it? Ghost didn't seem to notice the monster's epiphany.

All he saw was the massive monster that stood over him, its single red eye glowing with hate, its body riddled with holes but still active, the disgusting slobber dripping from its mouth. All he knew at that moment was how _fucking much this thing NEEDED to DIE._

And as a Ghost, it was his job to haunt it. "I...am NOT GOING TO DIE AGAIN!"

The lights in his sockets became _flames_ as his hate outshined every last creature in the entire forest. He'd fought with terrorists, Roba, Makarov, every last evil man on the Earth one could think of. He'd killed _literally_ thousands of terrorist men and women, and already died once. He was not going to be done in again—especially not by a fucking Hollywood Monsters wannabe.

With strength that the human skeleton should not have, he kicked the creature in the stones as hard as he could muster. The sound of bones breaking was ironic.

Once again the thing howled in pain, releasing the lieutenant's arms. As soon as it did, Ghost's right hand balled into a fist. In a flash, his punch impacted heavily against the beast's armored face, almost completely shattering the bone plate. Relentless in his assault, the lieutenant shot to his feet and twisted the beast's extended arm with both of his hands, then punched in the opposite direction of its elbow joint.

There was a sickening crack as the arm bent in an unnatural angle. The monster fell forward, its damaged face landing directly on the barrel of Ghost's waiting Glock 19. He pulled the trigger, and the beast was no more.

Not waiting to see if the thing was still alive, Ghost holstered the Glock and hurried over to his downed friend.

It was a mess. The bark of the tree as well as the grass beneath Roach had been painted red. Miraculously, the bleeding had stopped, and Roach was still conscious, though writhing in pain.

There was no time to do anything—the oncoming roars of the other beasts reminded them both that they hadn't killed _any_ of the monsters save for that one.

As the beasts began to recover, Ghost hoisted Roach over his shoulder. "C'mon mate, let's get you out of here!"

Shakily, they hobbled away from the danger, Roach silently groaning as spikes of pain lanced through his arm. They made a distance of only thirty meters before they came upon another problem. Ghost cursed aloud as they reached the edge of a cliff, overlooking a river at the bottom, about a hundred meters down. There was no other place to go.

A chorus of growls and howls alerted them, and Ghost looked behind them, Roach unable to do so through his pain.

"Oh, you've _got_ to be fucking with us."

Surrounding them were not only the injured wolf-beasts that they had temporarily neutralized earlier, but there were upwards of _twenty more_.

"This is not my fucking day," the lieutenant commented. He looked over the cliff again. It was now or never. "Roach, brace yourself!"

Then they jumped.

VVVVV

**Decided to do another crossover, this one between RWBY and Call of Duty, specifically Roach and Ghost after their untimely deaths to Shepherd.**

**So, what do y'all think? Should I go off myself, or should I continue? Let me know in the reviews lads!**

**Sir Yeetus Deletus, signing off.**


	2. A Wary Band of Misfits

The World of Remnant is arguably a very dangerous place, even during times of relative peace. From the common purse-snatcher-pickpocket-er to the widespread terrorist organizations like the White Fang, humanity has always been under constant threat. But the biggest threat that man will ever face is undoubtedly the Grimm. Since ancient times these monsters of the darkness have been preying on the lives of both human and faunus alike, taking pleasure in the slaughter. Entire civilizations have risen and fallen, some taken out by war, others by the Grimm.

It was in man's best interests to adapt, and adapt they did. Dust, a powerful mineral that has yet to be fully understood, has been around for millennia, acting as the foundation for man's success, as well as their defense against the 'unholy' creatures of Grimm. Huntsmen and huntresses, powerful warriors that utilized aura and dust, have been the age-old protectors of mankind, guardians providing the light that pierced through the trenches of the darkness, shielding man from whatever may befall it.

Eventually after eons of evolution, after countless wars and meaningless struggles, four Kingdoms had set themselves in stone, coming together in peace and harmony to face the Grimm together as one; The Kingdoms of Atlas, Mistral, Vale, and Vacuo. To this day, they fight alongside one another with the huntsmen and huntresses as their frontline, constantly holding back the mindless tides of the Grimm, so that man may continue to prosper.

Of course, this is only the official story. See, what people don't know is that the Grimm threat isn't just a mindless swarm that attacked whenever they so pleased. The Grimm actually have a Queen, a manipulator behind the scenes that is hell-bent on the total destruction of both humans and faunus. It would also seem, as one Qrow Branwen could attest, that the protection of the Maidens is key to defeating the Queen.

However, after more or less baby-sitting the Fall Maiden, Amber, so that she doesn't accidentally reshape the landscape or get herself killed with her powers, it quickly became apparent that no, Amber does not want to live the rest of her life confined to Beacon Academy, and that yes, she would love to travel the world, despite the dangers that may pose. So, it was determined that Amber would get to travel once every few weeks to a month or something like that. And, of course, it was Qrow's job to watch over her for at least half of her travels.

Now, it was almost time for Amber's next _adventure_ and as such, Qrow was making his way back to Vale from Mistral—he had gone to the Kingdom of Mistral recently to check up on any increasing Grimm activity...as well as grab a bottle of his favorite booze. He had to restock somehow, right?

After all this is over, he'll probably end up going back to Signal until Ozpin deems otherwise. It would have been great to not get sidetracked on his way back to Vale, but as luck would have it, or at least, _his_ luck would have it, something had to pull him off the rails anyways.

Flying above the northeastern forests of the Sanus continent in his avian form, Qrow had been minding his own business when suddenly, he heard gunshots. _Loud _ gunshots, at that. Normally he wouldn't have gotten involved, but he was a professional huntsman, so it was more-or-less his obligation to at least take a look. Who knows, maybe he'd end up saving a hot chick, and _perhaps_ he'd get someone to spend a night with. The gods know he needs it.

The avian huntsman found himself being led to one of the uncharted rivers, mostly uncharted because people didn't come out this far into the wilderness due to the threat of Grimm. It was far beyond the reaches of the Kingdom of Vale, which was why Qrow was immediately suspicious upon arriving. He landed on a tree branch high above the action and gazed down tediously. His boredom turned into interest with what he saw.

There was a figure, likely a man judging from their shape, who stood in the center of a small clearing. His physique was pretty large—he was somewhat beefy, and pretty tall, maybe even a slight bit taller than Qrow himself. He wore the strangest clothes Qrow had ever seen—and he's seen some _weird_ outfits.

It wasn't weird in the sense that it was boisterous or eye catching, but weird in that it was so _specialized._ He wore a grayish-white jacket of some sort with pockets on the forearms and upper-arms, and on each shoulder was a flag that Qrow didn't recognize. His pants were camouflaged, made to fit in with the forest perfectly, and strangely, he wore a knee-pad but only on his right leg. The figure also had a vest that was mostly empty, as if most of the equipment had already been used. His whole outfit was covered in dirt with multiple stains from other substances on it, as well as one or two tears here and there, but was otherwise very well-kept.

What was very eye-catching was the weapon in the man's hands, a rifle of some sort that Qrow had never seen before. It was colored a sleek black and was very complex looking—the hand-guard was slightly shorter than the barrel and had multiple rails on it. Attached to said rails were a bunch of complex gadgets he couldn't quite make out.

The figure turned to his right and fired a single round. The resulting gunshot was _fucking loud_. Louder than any type of gun Qrow had ever heard before. If that wasn't surprising, what he saw, was. The projectile that was fired moved at an indescribable speed, seen as nothing more than a brief streak of light across Qrow's vision—it was so fucking fast in fact, that Qrow was unsure if he'd even seen it. What the hell...?

Was this some sort of new Atlas weapon prototype or some shit like that? If so, then Jimmy had _lot_ of explaining to do. Although, it wouldn't make sense for Atlas to be way out here, and Jimmy wasn't one to break uniformity with his men, even in tests like this one—if it was a test. Just what the hell was going on here?

With as narrow eyes an avian creature could have, Qrow squinted at the figure distrustfully. An instant after the first shot was fired, another one left the barrel, the same streak of light as before—although this time Qrow was able to see it a bit more clearly. Perhaps he was just unprepared the first time.

Those two shots sent a Beowolf careening into the mud, where it subsequently fell into the river, likely never to be seen again. With speed only obtainable by a trained veteran of sorts, the figure turned back to the left and fired two more shots, then left again with two more shots. Another two Beowolves hit the dirt, sliding to an unceremonious stop where they began to fade away.

The figure seemed to make a decision, letting his rifle rest at his side, and unsheathing a serrated combat knife. With expertise only a professional combatant would have, the figure ducked under a leaping Beowolf and used its own momentum to smash it into the ground with one hand, before plunging the knife deep into its throat, ripping upwards with the serrated edge and ending its life. At the angle he was watching from, Qrow finally caught a glimpse of the man's face, or rather, what covered it.

The man wore a balaclava—something rarely seen nowadays—that had the bottom half of a skull embroidered on it, leading up to the eyes. From this alone, Qrow deduced that the guy might be a tough nut to crack, probably hard to get along with, not unlike that Schnee girl. A pair of red-tinted sunglasses concealed everything that the mask didn't, so it was hard to get a read on this guy. Over his ears was a _dapper_-looking headset, Qrow must admit. Overall? Two-hundred percent increase in suspicion.

The man's clear skill in combat didn't help—his form in both ranged weaponry and close combat were perfect, and his moves were executed flawlessly with no wasted energy, meant to take down enemies as quickly and efficiently as possible—no flashy gimmicks and such. However, the man moved at a much slower speed than any seasoned huntsman or huntress could achieve. Interesting.

Hmm...Skully. Yeah, that'll do for now. From here on out, the figure with the mask shall be dubbed Skully. It wasn't the most creative of nicknames, but it'd get the job done.

Another gunshot was heard, but not from Skully. Qrow turned his attention to the thunderous sound and saw another figure, similar in dress though worse for wear. The biggest differences between the two was the headgear. This one had a complicated looking helmet as well as goggles covering his eyes and a mask covering his mouth and nose, but unlike Skully, this one's eyes were visible. Two golden orbs shifted around, pained and slightly worried. Atop the man's helmet, two insectoid antennae stuck out proudly. From the man's mask, a pair of mandibles stuck out like a sore thumb. Most notable was the man's missing limb.

The...cockroach faunus? The faunus sat on the ground with his back against a tree, his right arm wielding another strange firearm, and his left arm missing completely. Where his left arm should have been there was a blood soaked cloth, and if it wasn't already clear enough, the man was in pain.

_So that's what's happening._

Even so, the faunus did his best to assist Skully, firing at any approaching Beowolves, aiming to incapacitate. He took out the legs of three Beowolves before his pistol clicked empty, and with practiced ease, the man reloaded with one hand.

As he did, Skully laid waste on the incapacitated Beowolves. He came upon the first, which swung at his head fruitlessly. As he slid past the blow, ending up behind the beast, Skully rammed his combat knife into its neck and pulled out his own sidearm. He fired two rounds at the second Beowolf, which attempted to take him out while he was dealing with the first, and as it fell, he ripped his knife out of the first's neck, decapitating it. Finally, he turned to the last, gripping his knife by the blade. With no hesitation, he threw the knife expertly, and it spun in the air like a lawnmower blade, embedding itself in the Beowolf's skull.

In pain and confusion, the creature swiped at the air, hammering its fists into the ground. Right as its fists hit the floor, Skully approached, sending a kick at its elbow joint. Qrow _almost_ cringed when the joint bent inwards, mangling the limb horribly. With nothing to support it, the Beowolf fell face first into the ground. Skully sent a kick at its neck, then another for good measure. The sound of breaking bones was prevalent in the execution.

It seemed like everything was over, at least, until they heard the ear-rending roar in the distance.

_An Alpha Beowolf,_ Qrow realized. Skully pulled his knife out of the disintegrating carcass's head just as the massive creature broke through the treeline, along with three more Beowolves. For the first time, Skully spoke.

"Roach, we've got a big one! Take out its buddies, and leave it to me!" he barked. His voice was surprisingly smooth, yet battle-hardened, serious, and _heavily_ accented (London Cockney). Qrow had heard loosely similar accents, but they were barely there. Skully's was much heavier, and a bit harsh.

No sooner after Skully finished speaking, the faunus unloaded on the regular Beowolves while Skully turned to the larger Alpha.

_What are you thinking, Skully?_ Qrow pondered. The man was good, great even. His moves were better than a lot of huntsmen and huntresses, more efficient as well, but he was much too slow compared to them. How would he deal with this?

Qrow watched curiously as Skully pointed his _pistol_ at the Alpha's head. What was he thinking!? That peashooter won't do jack shit to an Alpha! Wait...Was he going to...?

The pistol discharged, and barely a moment later, the Alpha roared as its left eye burst like a balloon. It glared at its assailant with its remaining eye, full of hate, only to have that eye burst as well. Completely blind, enraged, and in pain, the Grimm roared again, as all Grimm were wont to do. In retaliation to its animalistic utterance, Skully lobbed a spherical object down its gaping gullet. Qrow could only assume that it was a—

_BOOM!_

Yep, it was a grenade. While the outside of a Grimm was typically durable, even in the toughest of conditions, the same couldn't be said for the inside. For this Alpha, roaring had been its last and greatest mistake. The top half of the alpha ruptured in a ball of flames, blazing viscera raining around the forest, some landing in the river, shrapnel shooting in all directions. The bottom half persisted, and rather creepily, took two steps forward before toppling over, presumably dead.

Well...that just happened. Skully was a lot more resourceful than Qrow first thought. His aim was undoubtedly unmatched, even better than a few huntsmen and huntresses Qrow knew.

Not too soon after that, and the lesser Beowolves fell with the Alpha, the faunus, Roach _apparently,_ having done his job. It was over.

As soon as the last Beowolf kicked the bucket, Skully hurried over to his companion, hoisting him up.

"C'mon mate, we're getting out of here," he said reassuringly.

It would have been insensitive to leave them there, but then again, Qrow didn't have a clue about what their goals were. The avian huntsman wasn't the most trusting of people either. Roach was heavily injured, though, and Qrow detested killing people, let alone leaving them to die. Even so, Qrow stood on the bridge between leaving and helping them out. It was what he saw next that solidified his decision.

Scrutinizing Skully one final time, he caught a glimpse of something he hadn't seen before. Behind the red-tinted sunglasses, he _swore_ that he saw the faintest glow of _silver._ It could have been his imagination, but the longer he stared, the more prevalent that color—silver, became. This...This changes things. Perhaps...

With his decision made, Qrow swooped down from his branch. Should the need arise, he had no doubt that he'd be able to take them down. Time to make an entrance.

VVVVV

For four days they'd been moving north. For four days, their survival and stealth skills had been put to the test. Ghost had supported Roach the whole time, refusing to let the man exert himself too much. He'd scavenged and hunted for food, from berries to wild animals, all of which he'd prepared accordingly, using his knowledge and intuition to sort out the edibles from the poisonous. He'd set up camp, took watch for the nights, and made makeshift bandages out of spare cloth.

Through all this, Ghost had discovered a few things about his new body along the way. Being a literal skeleton, he had no need to eat at all. He didn't need to sleep either, which definitely helped when he had to take watch for the night.

Roach on the other hand, needed all of these things. Ghost didn't mind providing—he wasn't gonna let the only bastard that he could trust and care about kick the bucket. Not after they'd already died once.

They spent most of the days trekking through the seemingly endless forest, taking care to sneak around those _things,_ whatever they were. There were a ton of different species, all hell-bent on killing _Roach_ specifically. See, that was another thing. Those _things_ only went after Roach, never batting an eye at Ghost unless he attacked them, and they had no idea why. It certainly made his job a lot harder when everything in the forest sought to rip his only companion to shreds.

Worse still, Roach's condition wasn't getting any better. He wasn't getting any _worse_ but neither was he improving. He was always in constant pain, and no matter what Ghost did, he couldn't help him. The only thing they could do was push on.

Since the initial encounter with those wolf-creatures, the duo hasn't alerted any more of them until now. They'd been making their way up the river when a shadow flew overhead. It was the first time they'd encountered one of those weird birds. The thing swooped down and launched razor sharp feathers at them, all of which missed Roach but tore Ghost's clothing in a few places. They didn't question it and shot it down rather easily—it wasn't that large compared to what they'd seen so far.

Unfortunately, those gunshots had alerted the entire fucking forest. So, they had to stand their ground, what with Roach being too injured to move quickly. They settled down in a nice little spot where Roach could sit by a tree and provide fire support. Then, it began.

Immediately noticeable were the large wolf-like creatures that tore through the treeline, the same ones that the duo had first encountered except for one big difference.

_These dogs are pussycats compared to the other ones._

These wolves were nowhere near as large as the ones they'd encountered, though still much larger than any human had the right to be. Each one went down in only two or three shots to the chest—a godsend compared to the ones they'd faced earlier.

For about half-an-hour they defended that position, killing dark wolves, bears, and boars alike, each one taking variable amounts of ammunition and tactics depending on how large they were and where their armor was. The duo burned through ammunition much too fast for their liking, and it quickly became apparent that they'd need to conserve it somehow. Case in point, Ghost resorted to using his combat knife and his skills in martial arts. A lot of people don't know that he's a licensed master in various martial arts, including knife arts.

With these skills, Roach would expend only one round to briefly immobilize the creatures, allowing Ghost to dispatch them quickly. They worked like this for a while, Ghost only ever utilizing his rifle when the bastards grew too numerous. Eventually, the big one showed up, bigger than any other they'd seen so far, and similar to the very first one they'd encountered. Ghost had a plan to deal with it easily.

From what he'd seen so far, all of these creatures had a terrible tendency to roar whenever in pain. So, he took out its eyes with two well-placed shots from his Glock, prompting it to open its large mouth. It had no idea what Ghost was going to do since it was effectively blind, and one M67 Frag Grenade later, it was nothing but a pile of mush on the ground. After that, the battle was thankfully over. Unfortunately, that was the last grenade Ghost had, so dealing with another one would be a pain in the arse. He just hoped they wouldn't run into any more.

The lieutenant helped his mute companion up, and they hobbled a few meters before Roach caught his attention, nodding towards their front.

"What is it mate?" Ghost asked, looking forward. "Ah, hell."

A figure swooped down from above, landing before them from across the clearing. It was a man by the looks of it—he had graying black, spiky hair, dull red eyes and slight stubble along the jawline. The handle of what could be assumed was a weapon was sticking out over his shoulder. Ghost was immediately suspicious.

With his right hand, he pointed his Glock at the man, supporting Roach with the his left. The man slowly, nonchalantly began walking over, clapping.

"Nice job taking out that Alpha," he praised.

Ghost glared. "Identify yourself!"

The man paused, holding up his hands in a placating manner. "Whoa, watch where you point that thing, Skully. You could get somebody hurt." His voice was deep and raspy. It reminded Ghost of Shepherd's voice.

"Identify yourself, or things are gonna get messy," Ghost growled lowly.

"Who, me?" the man pointed to himself, "I'm just a guy who happened to be passing by. The better question is what're you two doing out here?"

Ghost's teeth clicked together. He heard Roach's mandibles clicking together next to him as well. "Just passing by? Yeah right, I could ask you the same thing, mate."

"Mate, huh?" the man raised a brow. He studied the duo for a moment. "Nice get-up. Where'd you get it?"

The lieutenant scrutinized the man's clothing. Along with a red, tattered cloak, he wore a gray dress shirt with a long tail, black dress pants and black dress shoes. He also had a cape.

After a brief moment of silence, Ghost replied. "Mum's basement."

The man looked perplexed for the briefest of moments before he realized. "Oh, ha ha very funny. Mock the cape, why don't you?"

Ghost was running out of patience. "Mate, I'll give you one more chance to identify yourself before I pull this here trigger. You ain't gonna like what happens next."

The man rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine. The name's Qrow Branwen, professional huntsman at your service." He did a mock bow.

_Qrow Branwen? What a fucking joke. Huntsman? No way this bloke is Australian._

"...What do you want, mate?"

"Well, I couldn't help but notice you two boys making a ruckus out here. Thought I'd stop by, see if things are going swell. Speaking of which, what _are_ you two doing out here?"

If he could have bitten his lip, Ghost would have. "...We're lost."

"Lost? I think I can see that," the man, 'Qrow', eyed them, pausing. He took a step closer. "Two guys wearing strange outfits, with strange weapons, in a strange forest hundreds of miles away from the Kingdom. Normally, I'd be obligated to help you out...But I feel I should be asking something more along the lines of 'Who do you work for?'"

Ghost breathed, aggravated. "Mate, its been a rough four days, so if you could just point us in the right direction and bugger off," he motioned with his Glock, "I'd appreciate it."

"Hmm," Qrow thrummed. "Yeah you should probably find some medical attention for your pal." He gestured to Roach, who was now staring back at the ground. "Say, if you follow me, I can get you to the nearest settlement, and maybe you can get some help for your friend there. I've got my own agenda, so if you don't come along then...well, that's on you."

Ghost hesitated. It could be a trap for all he knew. But what are the odds of them finding civilization if they traveled alone? He and Roach had been traveling for four days already, and there hasn't been a hint of any human activity whatsoever. This guy was the first.

After the debacle with Shepherd, though, he wasn't sure what was real anymore, or who could be trusted.

"Clock's ticking, Skully," the man reiterated.

Ghost glanced at his companion, Roach. The man was still in pain. It would be best to get him to safety. Ghost made his decision.

"Fine then. Take us there."

Qrow smirked. "I knew you'd see it my way." He started walking off. "C'mon, the nearest village is to the west."

With a bit of hesitance, Ghost followed, supporting Roach the whole way. They walked for about an hour in awkward silence, save for the occasional clicking of Roach's mandibles. By the time anyone said anything, the sun was beginning to set. Crickets started their routine of chirping, birds sang their nightly songs, and the wind raked through the leaves of the trees, providing a pleasant breeze for those on the ground.

"So, what were you two really doing out there?" Qrow asked inquisitively, breaking the silence.

"...We were lost."

"Right," the 'huntsman' drawled. He took a swig from his hip flask. "Packing that much firepower? I'm sure you were. You have a name?"

"If we're gonna be playing twenty-one questions, then you better be able to answer mine as well, mate," Ghost admonished.

"Alright then. Answer mine first, and I'll answer yours," Qrow gave him a sideways glance. "What do I call you?"

"...Call me Ghost. This is Roach," he nodded to the sergeant.

"Uh-huh, Ghost and Roach? You sure those aren't code names, Skully? I doubt a mother would be sadistic enough to name their child after a pest."

"Skully? We goin' by nicknames now, Qrow?"

"Is that your question?"

Ghost rolled his sockets. "Depends, you want me to refer to you as cock-head?"

"...Fair enough." He took another swig from his hip flask.

Ghost attempted to lick his lips. He really needed to stop doing that. "Where are we?"

"Don't even know what continent, Skully?"

"Just answer the question, mate."

Qrow sighed. "You, my friend, are on the continent of Sanus. A few hundred miles east of Vale."

"Vale?"

"It's my turn, Skully," Qrow stopped him. Ghost huffed. "So, how'd you boys get attacked in the first place?"

"It ain't exactly easy to haul your injured mate through the forest when every bloody monster in there wants to kill you, lad," Ghost retorted. Roach clicked his mandibles twice. Ghost agreed. "My point."

"...He didn't say anything."

"Nothing you need to worry about, mate." Ghost glanced warily at Qrow's attire once more, eyeing the massive sword-like weapon on his back. "So, what do you do for a living?"

A moment of hesitance. "I told you, I'm a huntsman, Skully. I kill Grimm for a living...And teach kids how to kill Grimm."

Grimm...is that what those creatures were? Ghost would assume that that was common knowledge for now—the man said he taught kids how to kill them...Wait, he's teaching kids to—

"What's with the outfit?"

"Come again?"

"Why the masks? And the vests? You look like you just fought a war," Qrow mused.

"...That ain't entirely inaccurate. And the mask? Well, that one's personal, mate. In Roach's case...well, you can ask him yourself. The vests? How else do you expect a lad to carry their ammunition?" Ghost grunted as he stepped over a log, helping Roach over it.

They walked for another minute or so, trading questions when they finally came upon a road. To most, it was nothing but a cheap dirt road. To Ghost and Roach, however, it was the gates to Heaven.

"Heh, we're almost there, Roach! Just hold on a bit longer, yeah?" His companion nodded in agreement, and honestly, a little excitement, his eyes shifting around a bunch. Qrow stared ahead, his expression blank. He promptly took a swig from his hip flask.

He wiped his mouth, turning towards the two operators. "So, Skully, couldn't help but notice that neither you nor your friend have your aura unlocked. Care to explain?"

Ghost stared at the man as if he'd grown a second head. "...Aura?"

"Y'know, the stuff that literally every living being on Remnant possesses? How the hell did you boys even survive that long without it?" He gestured with his arms out, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

The lieutenant remained silent. By now it was obvious to the operators that they were on another world. They'd seen the creatures, seen the shattered moon at night, and if that didn't make it obvious enough, then the way Qrow dressed did.

Ghost figured that aura was one of the fundamental terms everybody knew about, just like the Grimm, but lacking any knowledge on the matter, he didn't know how to reply.

"...Never had a need for it," he said simply.

Qrow scoffed. "Never needed it? I'm sure your friend here would disagree. Isn't that right, Roach? How's your arm feeling? Oh wait," he said sarcastically. "And while we're on that topic, where'd you learn to fight like that without aura? I've never seen a martial style like that. You could rival huntsmen with that. And your aim? Never seen someone shoot out the eye of an Alpha, let alone _twice in a row._ What about your guns? What the hell kind of Dust munitions are you packing?" His voice got more heated as he spoke. The man stepped away from the operators. "Normally, I'm not one to pry, but I've got to ask. Who. Are. You?"

Ghost shot the man a wary look. "...You ain't gonna let this slide, are you?"

Qrow didn't reply, merely glaring expectantly.

"Fine then. As of now? We're..." Ghost paused. He was gonna say 'nobody', but he had a feeling that that would only piss Qrow off. Perhaps he could use...Yeah, that would definitely work. It _shouldn't_ exist here, but it'll be solid enough ground to satisfy the huntsman. "...Bravo 6. What's it to you?"

The huntsman crossed his arms. "Bravo 6? So you're one of those military boys, huh? Call sign: Bravo 6? That it?"

_The Phonetic Alphabet exists here? Shit._

"Alright then. Explain this: that flag on your shoulder. What army do you fight for, Skully?"

_This bloke's stepping into territory he doesn't want to be in._

"...You're asking a lot of questions, aren't you, Qrow?" he started slowly. "Right, I don't remember you giving us a reason why you were in that there forest," he nodded over.

Qrow only gave him a condescending look. "Well, I don't think you're in a position to be the one asking questions, _Ghost._"

They held each others gazes in what seemed like an eternal staring contest to determine who's will would falter first. Tension began to build up between them as they became more heated, their expressions slowly becoming more hostile, in Ghost's case, his sockets burning brighter. But before anyone could act on anything, their contest was suddenly broken.

Roach let out an insect-like screech, writhing in agony, his body spasming and his eyes the size of dinner plates. Ghost made to assist, but the man was totally unresponsive.

"Roach? ROACH!?" The lieutenant turned to Qrow, his fists clenched, and the flames in his eyes blazing brightly. The huntsman took a step back, shocked. "Where's the village!?" He didn't respond. "WHERE IS IT!?"

The huntsman snapped out of his stupor. "To the west, another mile or so."

As quickly as he could, Ghost hoisted the agonized sergeant over his shoulder. "Let's go, LET'S GO!" he roared. He ran off in the direction of the setting sun as quickly as he could.

Qrow could only stare in astonishment for a moment before following behind. So Skully did have silver eyes. But was he a Silver-Eyed Warrior? That remains to be seen.

VVVVV

By the time they got to sanctuary, the world had been flooded in darkness. Upon arrival, Ghost didn't much care for the sights that the village presented. His priority was getting Roach to a doctor. As such, he ran past all the confused and fearful souls that surrounded him, watching him warily. Once he got to what he assumed was the town center, he turned to the nearest person: a woman in a farmer's outfit, presumably heading home for the night.

"Is there a doctor in this village, lass?" he demanded, perhaps a bit too harshly. The woman seemed surprised for a moment before her expression shifted into one of disdain. Yep, definitely a bit too harsh.

"Oi, that's a mighty bit rude, mister!"

He didn't have time for this.

"IS THERE A DOCTOR OR NOT!?" he all but roared. The woman squeaked, jumping in fright. In the face of his burning glare, she faltered, pointing fearfully at one of the few buildings that had its lights on.

"T-There's one down over yonder! N-Now b-buzz off! Asshole!" the woman cried, running off almost in tears. Townspeople were exiting their homes now to see what the commotion was about.

Ghost merely shouted in her direction, "Much appreciated luv!" then hurried to the building, Roach croaking on his back the whole way. He would have kicked the door open, but at the last moment, a man opened the door, freezing up when he saw Ghost's balaclava.

"Move aside, mate! Emergency coming through!" he warned. The man stepped aside, allowing Ghost to barrel through the door. As soon as he did, a middle-aged man in an old, well-worn white coat stepped out of a door at the far side of the room. He caught sight of Ghost and Roach, doing a double take.

"Excuse me, what is happening here?"

Ghost stepped up to him. "You the doctor?"

The man put his hands on his hips. "Yes, I am. The one and only in this quaint little town."

"Good, I need your help. The mate on my back, he's got his arm lopped off four days ago. Now he's got the jimmies, but I can't identify the problem. Can you help him?"

The doctor's eyes widened. He coughed in his fist. "I'll see what I can do."

No less than five minutes later, and Roach was on an operating table, his vest, jacket and undershirt having been taken off, but his helmet, mask, and goggles still on. The doctor stood next to him, several age-old devices in his hands that seemed to barely operating correctly. Ghost stood nearby, his arms crossed in anticipation. To Ghost's right, Qrow stood awkwardly, hip flask in hand.

After a minute of awkward silence, the huntsman leaned over to Ghost. "Did you have to freak out like that?" he whispered.

Ghost didn't look away from Roach's operation, though his attention was now on Qrow. "What're you on about?" he replied.

The huntsman scratched the back of his head. "You kinda scared the entire village shitless. And you made a woman cry. Things that I had to deal with."

"...I've spent four days dealing with this malarkey, lad. Forgive me if I'm a bit of a wanker for the next few hours."

"Wanker? What's that supposed to mean."

Ghost threw the man a cursory glance. "Y'know what? Don't worry about it."

"Alright, whatever you say, Skully."

The huntsman took another swig from his hip flask before gazing down at it thoughtfully. After working the cogs in his mind for a minute, he held it out to Ghost.

The operator looked at it curiously. He followed the arm that offered it, finding Qrow looking at him with both eyebrows raised. Ghost waved him off, prompting the huntsman to shrug and take another sip.

They stood in awkward silence for a few more minutes before the doctor finally stepped away from the table, grumbling under his breath. Ghost immediately unfurled his crossed arms, watching the doctor eagerly.

"What's the word doc?"

The doctor slowly, painfully slowly looked away from Roach and towards Ghost, taking a deep, almost emotional breath.

"...Doc?"

"There's...There's nothing wrong with him."

...

"Are you mental, mate? You saw the way he was spasming earlier, and you mean to tell me that nothing's wrong?" Ghost scoffed. "Don't fuck with—" He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Sorry doc, didn't mean for it to come out that way," he more-or-less apologized, dragging a hand down his balaclava. "It's been a stressful few days, but we're—"

Roach's body jumped on the table, spasming again. His left shoulder twitched erratically, and everyone collectively took a step back. Then the spasming stopped, and he was still again.

Qrow whistled softly. "Yep. There's definitely something wrong with him—"

The socket at Roach's left shoulder burst outwards, fluid covering the walls. In an instant, a large appendage formed, shriveled from over-hydration. The appendage was a mirror image of Roach's right arm. In other words, it was his left arm.

"What the bloody hell...?"

The three spectators gaped at the faunus on the table. Said faunus shook his head drowsily, his full consciousness returning. Roach lifted his left arm, the familiar sensation putting him in a state of shock. He waved it around, clenching and unclenching his fist.

Ghost was the first to recover, stepping up to the table. "You alright, mate?"

The sergeant replied with a thumbs-up, his mandibles clicking together softly.

"Well now, isn't that something," Qrow drawled. "So, he can regenerate?" He was ignored.

"...Fascinating." The doctor started walking around the table, a hand on his chin and an expression of intrigue on his face. "A natural, biological adaptation that allows extreme regeneration, at the cost of temporary malnutrition." He poked at one of Roach's biceps, which was noticeably thinner. "The medicines that could be produced...The advances in medical technology that this could make! I must record this!"

Ghost followed the doctor with a wary gaze as the man nearly slammed into the exit, running off to somewhere or other. "...I reckon that takes care of that." He turned his attention back to Roach. "Malnutrition, huh? What say we grab a bite to eat? Its getting pretty late, yeah?"

Roach merely shrugged.

VVVVV

"Man, you really weren't kidding when you said you were lost, were you?"

The odd trio consisting of one huntsman and two obscure operators had made their way to the nearest pub, which was mostly empty, save for the one bartender and a faunus girl, both of whom kept throwing wary glances at them, likely because of their attire, weapons, and demeanor. Ghost sat on a high-stool at the front bar, Qrow on his left with a bottle of what was this world's equivalent of Guinness, and Roach on his right with a nameless beer and a well-made sandwich.

Ghost and Qrow had been conversing again, Roach only listening intently as he tore through his meal. The bartender kept throwing Roach and the faunus girl a disgusted look, but was too afraid to say anything on account of the group's kickass appearance.

"I thought we already established this a while back, Qrow," Ghost quipped. He sighed, squeezing at the empty air on the counter-top. "There's a lot of things I can't tell you, mate, I'm sure you understand. But...I've gotta say that I do appreciate you."

The avian huntsman stopped mid-sip. "Where's this coming from?"

"If you hadn't been there, we would've been trekking north until we reached the ocean."

Qrow nodded at that. "Yeah, you would've been lost alright."

Ghost clicked his teeth. "Cheeky bastard," he muttered. "You know if you didn't identify yourself, I would've shot you, yeah?"

"It probably wouldn't have done much." The huntsman nodded at the man behind the counter as he downed the rest of his bottle. "Bartender, hit me with another one." He looked back at Ghost, an inquisitive expression on his face. "You don't drink?"

"If I could, I would. But since I can't, I shan't."

The lieutenant honestly missed his ability to taste. He also lamented the fact that he had to hide the rest of his body indefinitely, lest people freak out and he get sent off to one of those experimental facilities. Apparently, people like Roach, the animal people, were a norm on this world—Ghost saw a few men and women with various animal traits walking around town. Until he finds out that skeleton people are a norm too, he ain't showing any skin—er, bone.

The counter went silent for a minute, until Ghost caught the huntsman throwing glances at him. "You need something, wanker?"

"...I just gotta say, you've got a weird way of speaking, Skully." He licked his lips—something Ghost was slightly envious of. "Where are you from?"

"We playing twenty-one questions again, mate?" Ghost said, his sockets burning brighter slightly.

"Why not. Maybe this time we actually get somewhere with it."

"Right then. I won't be able to answer some of your questions, though, I hope you understand that."

Qrow shrugged. "Figured. Should I assume that 'Where are you from?' is one of those questions?"

"Yep." The reply was immediate.

"Alright," Qrow continued, tapping his fingers on the counter. "Bravo 6? How did that work out for you?"

Ghost sat in silence for a moment, pondering what to tell him. "...I was a lieutenant. I didn't go to Officer School mind you. Started at the bottom, worked my way up the hierarchy from private, to sergeant, and so on." He gave a short laugh. "Essentially, I'm not high enough rank to command an army, but I am high enough to yell at the lads who piss me off." He paused. "Those blokes that sit behind their office chairs don't have a bloody clue what it's like to fight, yet they're the ones giving us all the orders up above...Trusting them was a mistake..."

Qrow studied the officer before him. He couldn't get a read on this guy, but he did notice how the man's silver eyes seemed to glow brighter when he was under stress or reminiscing. "What happened?"

"Let's just say," he jerked a thumb at Roach, "he and I are all out of friends."

The avian huntsman was able to understand the cryptic message immediately. "...I'm guessing that's why you and him were out in the forest?"

"You could put it that way, yeah," Ghost replied. "Right then, my turn. What were you doing when found us, eh? You seem to know your way around this continent, so I doubt you would've been taking a stroll through the forest like a warm summer's day. The...Grimm were bloody everywhere."

"You know that not being able to answer some questions cuts both ways, right?"

"Bugger-all, just do your best, mate."

Qrow frowned. The lieutenant was being much more subdued than he was back in the forest. "I was making my way back from Mistral to Vale. I've got someone to baby-sit. I just happened to hear some gunfire along the way and stopped by. I am a huntsman, you know. It's my job to investigate stuff like that." The bartender placed another bottle in front of him, and he nodded his thanks to the man. "My turn. Since you're obviously a...soldier, Let me ask you this: why do you fight, Ghost?"

"You want the short answer? Or the long answer?"

"Short answer."

"Queen and Country."

"Long answer it is."

"Right then." Qrow noticed a sudden shift in his demeanor. It was hardly noticeable to most, but in his years as a huntsman, he was able to catch it. "I've been all around the world, mate. And I've seen all different kinds of characters. From what I've learned, there's only three types of people: The Neutral, which are the civilians that live their lives in ignorance, no idea what its like in the world outside of the city. Then, there's the...Morally Challenged. Those are the greedy, the sadistic, and the power-mad. They're also the selfless bastards that counteract the rotten ones. But don't misunderstand, neither of them are evil. The power-mad don't seek power cause they're evil, they look for it because they have an agenda. The men who kill those blokes ain't evil either—they kill because its their job, and even if it may just be an excuse for them to kill someone, at least they're doing it for the greater good."

The lieutenant took a deep breath, even as Qrow leaned in to better understand what he was saying. "And finally, there's True Evil. Now, true evil isn't something you can quantify or declare. It's a feeling you get, something that you'll instinctively know. Go find someone truly evil, talk to them, and you'll feel it, and you'll know it, and from then on, you'll know what I'm talking about. The truly evil—you can't put a face to them because they could be anyone. True evil does not fear. They don't care if you've got a fucking army behind your back, they'll wreck your shit anyways. But, if I had to put a face to real evil, then it'd be this: those that cause real pain and misery on anyone and anything regardless of what it is, just because they can."

The whole bar was silent after that, every single soul in the room staring at the lieutenant in awe or deep contemplation. Even the rowdy group of four men who'd just entered and sat down near the faunus could only ponder his words of experience.

Qrow swallowed, thinking back to a few conversations he'd had with Ozpin about morals. Even for him, this was deep. What was it that got Ghost to have this view on the world? And...wait.

"Why put the 'selfless bastards' with the Morally Challenged?"

Ghost snorted. "That's the thing mate. The reason why I fight, is so that the Neutral can sleep well at night. We protect them from things they don't even know they need protecting from. And the end goal? To create a world where the True Evil and the Morally Challenged don't exist. The ideal world has no soldiers, no 'selfless bastards' looking to protect the innocent, because in that world, the innocent don't _need protecting._ They'll be safe, ignorant, and happy."

The lieutenant sighed. "Of course, that's just a pipe dream. That's why soldiers are there, to preserve the lie of Good and Evil, cause a perfect world will never be a thing. It's why muppets like Roach and I fight. If you want the short version of why I lump the 'selfless bastards' with the Mortally Challenged then...An old captain of mine once said, '_We get dirty, so the world stays clean. That's the mission._' You wanna know why I wear this mask?" he pointed at his face, the lights in his eyes burning brighter by the second. "I'll spare you the details, but I can tell you that it was this philosophy that got me here. In my line of work, you lose a piece of yourself, mate. Some more than others. Me? I lost things that I'll never get back. But that's a story for another time."

The avian huntsman snapped out of his stupor, just now realizing that yes, he was still holding a conversation with Ghost, and that no, he was not listening to the speech of an old, wise man. Surprisingly, at least to Qrow, Ghost's morals seemed to line up almost perfectly with his own. Although he didn't fully trust Ghost yet, he felt a bridge of understanding build itself between himself and the lieutenant, a sense of camaraderie in a way.

He would be perfect for the fight against the Queen. Maybe, just maybe, if they truly come to trust one another in the future...

"Damn...I'll need another drink for that."

"Anyways, its my turn, Qrow."

"Ah, yeah. About that."

Ghost ignored him. "What's it like being a huntsman, eh?"

Qrow smacked his lips once, the tangy taste of the beer burning down the back of his throat. Might as well recall a few stories. After-all, Ghost pretty much gave him his life's story, right? "Ever heard of Signal Academy?"

VVVVV

Late at night, when the whole village was fast asleep, one man stood before the largest structure in town. Ghost snuck his way into the library, hunting for information.

If he and Roach were gonna be staying in this world, then they'd at least need to secure common knowledge.

He walked past all of the irrelevant sections, stopping in front of one labeled, 'History'.

It was gonna be a long night.

VVVVV

**So, what did y'all think? Was this chapter too dialogue oriented? I did my best to capture what a conversation between Ghost and Qrow would be like—both men are cynical, distrustful bastards. It would make sense for them to not get along at first. But I thought if they'd understand each others philosophies, then things would go a bit smoother. Of course, neither of them fully trust each other yet, but you know how that is.**

**Anyways, have a nice night.**

**Sir Yeetus Deletus, signing off.**


	3. Village Life?

On the world of Remnant, as the sun began to manifest its bright rays of shining light above the horizon, the not-so-subtle thunder of chaotic footsteps could be heard in the distance, overshadowing the soft orchestration of labored breathing. The men and women of the tiring militia tramped on to reach their goal distance, even as their calves burned, practically begging them to stop, and as those calves continued to burn, so too did their other muscle groups, having done other strenuous upper-body exercises before this marathon of a morning run.

"Why...did I ever...sign up for this?" Jaune Arc muttered to himself between desperate gasps. Sweat ran down his body and saturated his clothes, flecks of dirt and sand clung to him, coloring his skin an earthy brown, and his muscles felt as if molten lead had been poured into them. Right now he wanted to do nothing more than crawl into the sweet recesses of his bed's sheets, a heavenly place he'd been oh-so-rudely torn from earlier this morning. Very early this morning—an eye-widening six o'clock this morning in fact. He wanted to do nothing more than go back to sleep, to relieve himself of this _torture,_ but, as he'd done every day this week so far, the blonde recalled his ambition and ignored the pain.

_Right, this is my chance to become a huntsman!_

Ever since Jaune had heard the stories and legends about his family line, how his father, grandfather, and great grandfather were all warriors—huntsmen—he wanted to become one, too. Unfortunately, he had no training, and unless he acquired the necessary skills to survive the dance called combat, he would never become a huntsman. His dad didn't really have time to train him—the Arcs were a family of ten and it took a lot of work to support that—and sadly, nobody else in Ansel really had any sort of training at all, militia included.

Since Nicholas had always been there to protect the town, the militiamen and women had gotten lazy and complacent. That is, up until recently, when two mysterious men had showed up in town with a huntsman! The huntsman left quickly, but the two other men had stayed, and, for whatever reason, took it upon themselves to whip the militia back into shape.

Rumors had spread fairly quickly, something about the men being devils or something like that. Jaune didn't really care though—what he saw before him was an opportunity to get some training, and therefore, to become a huntsman!

Did his family know about this business? Well, probably not. And, honestly? He kind of preferred it that way. Ever since he'd professed his dream to become a huntsman, his family had always shrugged it off as nothing more than a silly phase. They didn't believe in him—nobody _ever_ believed in him.

This was not only a chance for him to follow his dream and become a huntsman, it was also his chance to prove himself to those that doubted him.

Alas, his decision to join the militia two weeks ago was probably the most painful one he ever made.

"Hey! When did I say you tossers could have a kip? Get a fucking move on you daft bastards! If I have to say it again, it's another lap around the perimeter! AM I UNDERSTOOD!?"

"YES SIR!" Jaune roared alongside the militia, as he was wont to do in such a situation lest his new commanding officers tear him a new one.

The blonde glanced to his left, eyeing the man in the skull mask. Ghost was his name, _apparently._ In all honesty, the LT—that's what everybody called him—freaked Jaune out. As if all of the yelling and criticisms the LT had was not enough, he was also suspicious as could be, and the only times he was ever seen around town was when he was either training the militia, or buying milk. Now, you might think that the image of a grown man with a milk addiction would make them less threatening, but in this case, it only made him more suspicious! Side note: He also has a weird accent and bunch of strange sayings. Tosser, wanker, bloke, cheesed off, dodgy, chuffed, cock-up—the list goes on and on.

Jaune had to admit though, the LT had a pretty killer pair of sunglasses, as well as some sort of gaming headset(?). Now that he thought about it, why _does_ the LT wear that headset all the time? Maybe he's just trying to be edgy.

The boy's focus shifted over to the other officer. They called him Roach. The guy was a cockroach faunus, and a mysterious one to boot. He never, _ever_ talked, only clicked his mandibles occasionally or twitched his antennae. The guy was pretty cool, but for some reason, everyone is afraid to approach him.

Jaune isn't stupid, he's aware of racism and all that, but come_ on!_ Ansel prides itself on respect and equality, but even other _faunus_ were wary of Roach—and why? Because he didn't look like them? Because he's _different?_ Regardless of what it is, Jaune felt bad for the guy. There wasn't really anything he could do about it though. Hopefully the other guys and gals will come around sooner or later.

The blonde sucked in a deep breath, staring straight-forward. Now that there was nothing to distract him, his legs were dying again. Had he known the training would be like this, he might _not_ have joined.

After another fifteen minutes of _ungodly torture_, the militia had finally finished their run. Jaune nearly fell to his knees heaving but thought better of it, placing his hands behind his head and breathing as steadily as his lungs would allow him.

Jaune despaired as his eyes swept over his commanding officers. They didn't even look winded.

The LT nodded in the militia's general direction. "Good work. You lot have ten minutes to sort yourselves out. Go get your equipment from the armory and rendezvous at the field. We'll see what you're made of, yeah?"

That's right! Today was different than usual. Instead of just the normal morning PT—that's what his commanding officers called physical training—they were going to be doing REAL combat training from here on out, starting with an evaluation to see where every man is at in terms of skill. It seemed that his dream really was starting to come true!

Now, to get Crocea Mors...just as soon as he catches his breath.

VVVVV

Faunus, Grimm, Dust, Aura, Huntsmen—it was all a right royal load of codswallop, like something out of a bloody fairy tale. As much as he wanted to, Ghost wouldn't question the fantastical aspect of this world—Remnant, it was called. He wouldn't lie though, this whole reincarnation thing was starting to get to him. Everything was so complicated, as if someone had taken a box full of metal puzzles and melded them together.

The lieutenant idly stared out into space, a serrated combat knife twirling between his skeletal fingers as he thought heavily about the events that had transpired since he and Roach had arrived in this world.

_"Where the bloody hell are you off to?"_

_"I told you, I have someone to babysit back in Vale, Skully."_

_"...Right then, break a wing, cock-head."_

_"Up your...pelvis, numbskull."_

Qrow had left town the morning after they'd arrived, as he said he would. As far as goodbyes went, Ghost could say that it had been one of the shortest he'd ever experienced. The operators didn't see the huntsman off, nor did they offer one another words of advice as they parted. They simply went their separate ways, the avian-titled huntsman walking off to God-knows-where while the operators stayed in the town—Ansel, it was called.

The reason they stayed behind? Well...it's complicated.

It's been what, two weeks since then? It's been two weeks since Qrow had left, and life in Ansel—life on Remnant was...well, they were getting by.

The operators had been thrown into a veritable pool of piranhas without a lifeline. They didn't have a sense of direction, didn't have a purpose. They were quite literally out of their element. Their lives had been stripped away from them—everything they had, everything they knew, was gone.

Shepherd's latest stunt had shaken both of them to the core. Roach, loyal sergeant that he was, felt like reality had shattered around him. In some ways, it really had. It was mind-numbing, how quickly the world around you can fall apart. He could still vividly remember the moment it had happened, the rage and despair he felt when he realized what was happening, the agony of the lead searing in his gut as he clawed haplessly at the betrayer.

And the look that Shepherd had given him. That glare, that one challenging stare of contempt that showed just how much Shepherd cared for the 141, just how long he'd been planning that moment. He had _never_ cared. All of those congratulations for their work, all of the support he'd given so that the 141 could carry out their duty—none of it was real. It had all been fabricated from the start, nothing more than a lying guise made to carry out a more sinister plan. Just thinking about sent chills down the sergeant's spine.

For Ghost, it had been like reliving a nightmare. Every last bit of his hate and rage coursed through him as he turned, every last iota of the sorrow and pain he felt spilled out in a cry of anguish as the knife of betrayal pierced through him once more. The hellscape that was buried within the far reaches of his mutilated mind had resurfaced, and with it, the twisted apathy that he had developed for the lives of those around him. Every time his mind wandered to it, his fists clenched to the point that they'd have bled had he any flesh and blood in the first place. His sockets would burn brighter as emotion ran rampant within him, as scarred memories attempted to tear him apart from within.

Both operators knew that dwelling on the topic would only be detrimental to their survival, but simply letting go would be impossible. It wasn't healthy, and the long term affects of it weren't ideal; with all things said and done, the operators were paranoid.

In their eyes, they were surrounded by unknowns and possible threats in this new environment. They were always waiting for something to happen, anxious about that ticking time bomb that may or may not go off. Their nerves were ready to fire at the drop of a hat, many different scenarios running through their heads, more often than not ending with casualties.

Ironically, what made it worse was their experience in battle.

Back with the boys in the task force, the lieutenant and the sergeant had been constantly surrounded by hostility, if not at least the perpetual thunder of gunfire. Day by day they worked out in the field, risking their lives in battle with a hundred men at a time, finishing an op before starting the next, sometimes jumping around the globe in the span of few hours, restlessly carrying out their duties as operators.

They were always in an environment in which violence was to be expected, where loud gunfire always thrummed against their ears, where letting the enemy strike first meant death. Ansel was unbearably quiet, and in their experiences, this meant the enemy was still there, hiding nearby.

It was ridiculous really. Obviously there aren't going to be terrorists lurking around town—at least, there shouldn't be any—and that's what the operators tried to get through their heads. Remaining vigilant, cautious, and alert at all times is a _good_ thing, a _must_—it's what they're trained to do, what they _needed_ to do in order to survive as operators. _B__ut,_ if it's to the point of becoming detrimental to their health, to their abilities to work efficiently as individuals and as a team, or to the point where the innocents around them may get hurt, then it's safe to say that they are taking things too far.

It was odd though. Despite their paranoia, despite having everything stripped away from them, despite being confined to this new world...they were now more free than they'd ever been.

The chains that had bound them, the self-sacrificing lives as operators that they had led, the obligations they had as guardians of the innocent—all of it was gone. As far as Remnant knew, their slates were clean and records were erased. When the time comes, they will leave Ansel, and the world will be their playground. They could do whatever they wanted, and nobody would be able to tell them otherwise. So what _will_ they do once they leave Ansel? In this new world, what will their purpose be?

The answer was obvious wasn't it?

At their cores, Ghost and Roach were _operators_, not of a single nation or government, but of mankind. The 141 had been a multinational global anti-terrorist unit outside the jurisdiction of every known national and international organization, created for the sole purpose of snuffing out the evils around the world. It was their job, their duty to keep the world clean, even if they get dirty in the process. Regardless of what ball of rock they stand on, protecting the innocent is what they do. There was no rest for the wicked...

_This_ was their purpose of course, but how would they go about fulfilling it? They weren't sure yet, but they both agreed that joining the military was a no go. Having the chains that had just been broken put back on was something neither of them desired. The upper echelons could no longer be trusted.

None of that would matter though if they never actually leave Ansel, and as it stood, they couldn't. The operators had no foothold in this world, no solid ground to stand on, no idea what the bloody hell was going on around the globe, and until they had a lick of sense on what was out there, they were stuck in the Ansel. They needed information, needed to know the players on the field, what the big picture looked like.

That led them to information gathering. A computer or cell device would've been the most desirable, but as far as technology goes, Ansel, while not limited, was lacking in that area.

That's okay though; Ansel's library was, as Ghost liked to put it, 'a bloody gold mine'. Even for a library as small as this one, the size of the building didn't matter since the history books were fucking massive. And God_damn_ did Remnant have a ton of history.

First and foremost were geography, maps, and locations. The planet was called Remnant and there were five continents—one of which was unnamed—with four main Kingdoms harbored on three of the five continents. All had different histories, hardships, cultures, technology, and people. Interestingly enough, the Kingdoms all fought a Great War to end all wars, something very similar to WWI and WWII, about eighty years ago. At the end of it, these four Kingdoms came together on the island of Vytal to make peace.

Interestingly enough, Ansel is located a couple hundred miles east of the Kingdom Vale, on the other side of the mountain range. For a town in the middle of nowhere, Ansel is quite a decent size, with normal-sized housing, a pharmacy/clinic, and even a bloody arcade! Just a few things to note.

The next thing the operators managed to dust off were books on the faunus, whom were basically the animal-human hybrids that everyone _hated._ Yes apparently, most of the human population was racist towards the faunus for no real rhyme or reason. It was so bad, that a war was fought over it—the Faunus Rights Revolution. Ghost couldn't help but note that it was _very_ similar to Earth's history, from the Haitian Revolution to the American Civil War, where slavery of the African Americans was eventually abolished, but heavy racism towards them still persisted. With Roach having become a faunus, this racism may become an issue in the future. Just another thing to think about.

Becoming a faunus wasn't without it's merits though. Nowadays, Roach boasted hyper-senses and hyper-reflexes, as well as extreme regeneration, presumably all abilities from his nature as a cockroach faunus specifically. The advantages these abilities had were, in as few words as possible, astonishing. Cockroaches are known for their ability to react, having the fastest reaction time out of most animal species on Earth, clocking in at _0.008_ seconds. For reference, a fighter pilot's reaction time is about 0.250 seconds. If Roach's reaction time is that of an actual cockroach's, then...well shit, he'd be able to react to _bullets_ at mid range. Keep in mind, reacting _does not_ mean dodging.

Unless Roach could somehow move the distance of one foot in order to dodge a bullet traveling at 762 m/s from a distance of approximately ten meters in less than 0.004 seconds, meaning he'd need to have an _initial_ velocity of _at least_ 76 m/s or 274 kph (170 mph), dodging bullets isn't going to be one of his fortes.

After sifting through the more useless stuff, Ghost came upon a book simply titled, 'GRIMM'. What he found was intriguing to say the least. Apparently, the reason why the Kingdoms didn't officially expand beyond their territories, was because the Grimm stopped them from doing so. These dark creatures plagued the Earth, and each one was hell-bent on killing _only_ humans and faunus. Perhaps that was why the Grimm were never actively hostile to Ghost. It seemed his status as a skeleton seemed to have more than a few merits to it.

There were dozens of different types of Grimm, all with different strengths and weaknesses. The very first Grimm he and Roach had faced, was an Alpha Beowolf. The reason why it took two dozen rounds to take the thing out, even with precise shots directly at its head and center-mass, was because it was an Elder Grimm of sorts, one that had survived for decades, possibly even centuries, eventually evolving from a lesser form, the common Beowolf.

Now, the regular Beowolves were the wolf-like creatures that were relatively weak compared to the Alphas, taking only two to three shots to center-mass, or a single shot to the head to take them out. There were also Ursai, the bear-like Grimm (Ursa means bear in Latin but for some fucking reason, the plural form on Remnant is Ursa_i_ when it should be Ursa_e_, but then again, who fucking cares about written linguistic accuracy), then there were Boarbatusks, the boar-like Grimm, and so on. To defend against the Grimm threat, the Kingdoms created the huntsman academies, which employ huntsmen and huntresses, elite warriors who use their skills, aura, and Dust to combat the Grimm.

Aura is the manifestation of one's soul, and acts like a forcefield for those who unlock it. With this, people are able to train their bodies to superhuman capabilities, so much so that they can leap over buildings or rip industrial steel apart with their bare hands. Ghost would've liked to acquire this intrinsic ability as soon as possible, but unfortunately, by the time he read up on it, the only huntsman that lived in Ansel, some bloke by the name of Nicholas Arc, had gone on a job. Furthermore, Qrow had been a huntsman which meant he _must_ have had aura, but the tosser had up and ditched them by daylight, so that was a lost cause.

Finally, the operators uncovered Dust, a mineral that was essential for mankind's survival, holding supernatural capabilities that could combat the Grimm and keep people safe. There was one weakness that mankind presented with this though: every civilization was _wholly_ dependent on Dust for everything from energy supply to technological advances. Remnant had absolutely _no_ knowledge of alternative resources like coal and oil, so when Dust eventually runs out, they'll be in a crisis.

As far as information goes, all of that shit only scratched the surface on what could be acquired. They could leave town now with what little information they have, but the thing is, they were in a bit of a...sticky situation.

At first, the operators had been hesitant to take up this job, especially with the lingering paranoia, but with the unusual circumstances of their arrival in Ansel, finding any solid ground to stand on was a bit troubling. Upon arrival, the duo's first order of business had been to acquire basic necessities like food, water, shelter, and security. That alone put them in a bit of a bind.

See, since neither Ghost nor Roach had any form of currency nor a way to acquire it, they were both effectively broke and incapable of leaving town, lest they want a repeat of the four day Grimm-infested survival extravaganza they had just recently. Not only that, they needed a place to stay for an undetermined amount of time, they were indebted to both a doctor and a pub, and—as minor of an offense it had been—they had scared the living shit out of everyone in town.

Nobody was willing to hire them for one reason or another—probably due to their less-than-conspicuous outfits—but the townspeople, benevolent as they are, weren't willing to just kick them out either. They were lucky that one of the local inns was willing to strike a deal with them. The innkeeper there would allow the operators to stay at their inn in exchange for two things: their service to the local militia until they leave town, and their assistance to anyone who requests it within reason.

It wasn't the best arrangement, and much was left to be desired, but they didn't really have a choice. While Ghost didn't seem to require sustenance any longer—he was still trying to figure out how that worked—Roach most certainly did, and though they could hunt for their meals and sleep outside (theft was an option as well), the luxury of safety that the indoors provided had become increasingly desirable.

So, they accepted the compromise.

The odd jobs that the townspeople requested weren't too bad—they were in and out type deals with little to no interaction—but the militia? Ho-ly-fuck it was just..._arse._

At first, the duo had plans to work separately from everyone else to avoid as much unnecessary contact as possible. However...upon their arrival at the militia, the duo were confronted by the 'veterans' of the operation, a measly dozen men and women who attempted to 'assert their dominance' on the newcomers. Not only were the operators forced to endure utter cringe for the first few minutes, they were also introduced to the militia's absolute _incompetence._

For a town in the middle of nowhere, Ansel is quite a decent size, with suburban-sized wood and stone housing, a pharmacy/clinic, and even a bloody arcade! If Ansel is capable of supporting such infrastructure, then the militia _should_ be decent enough to at least defend a sector of the town, but apparently, not only were their numbers minuscule, but the men and women, the so called veterans of such an organization, were nothing more than civilians with guns. How has the town even been able to stand for so long without falling?

Ghost wouldn't have it. No unit of his, no matter how small nor temporary, would be so _shit_ as to be unable to tell their head from their arse. These men and women were a _danger_ to the innocent. They created a false sense of security for the townspeople. When bandits or Grimm actually attack, they won't be able to do _shit._

So, after a load of bullocks from the 'militia', the lieutenant went _Drill Sergeant Mode,_ taking over and whipping the clowns into shape. Never before had the lieutenant heard a fully grown man scream so much like a little girl. It was _slightly_ amusing, but nowhere near as much as it was _unacceptable._

Within two days, people had branded Ghost a devil for his 'unscrupulous' methods, and Roach...well, people had mixed feelings for him. Thing is, Roach is, evidently, a faunus, and while none of the militia members are especially racist towards faunus—some of them being faunus themselves—Roach is a special case.

The sergeant is a cross between human and _cockroach,_ and there exists two issues with that. For one, there are no insect or bug-like faunus _to date_, making Roach unique, but not in a good way. Second and foremost, cockroaches are a universally abhorrent pest to both humans and faunus that have plagued mankind for eons. The people tried not to show their disgust, however slight it may be, but even the other faunus were wary of Roach.

The sergeant didn't seem to mind though, and while such behavior definitely irked Ghost, he would let this one slide since it didn't really affect the militia much. With enough time, hopefully everybody'd get used to it. If they didn't, then he'd straighten things out.

A full two weeks after training had started, the militia was showing vast improvement. Things were going well, and Ghost's methods of tortur—er, training actually inspired eight more members to join, bringing the militia up from a measly twelve to a total of twenty, plus Ghost and Roach.

Currently it's Thursday, which means PT at 6:30 in the morning, starting with upper-body circuit training, then several timed laps around the perimeter of Ansel totaling five kilometers. Should anyone fail to complete a lap, then the entire squadron would run another lap, Ghost and Roach overseeing their run. All things considered, this was beginner levels of training, nothing like the stuff done back home.

Today was different from the others though. It was on this day that Ghost and Roach agreed to give each member of the militia a combat evaluation test to see where they stand—a two-birds-with-one-stone opportunity. Not only will they determine the strengths and weaknesses of each member, they will also be given a chance to observe this world's weapons in action.

In a field to the northwestern quadrant of Ansel, the late 141 operators stood, arms crossed with an observant gleam in their eyes—literally in Ghost's case. The entirety of the field was made of dirt, the northern edge consisting of several steel targets a hundred meters behind a long chalk line, indicating a shooting range. The southern edge of the field had a row of wooden posts on which large hay bales were strapped, indicating targets for hand-weapons. From the western edge of the field to the center, large chalk squares had been drawn into the ground, each one roughly the size of a boxing ring.

The operators stood at the eastern edge of the field, facing the militia. Twenty men and women stood before them, some of them nervous, others anxious or excited. Quite a few of the men were comparing their weapons. Some held rifles, others had axes and spears. Each weapon looked vastly different from the last, some of ornate design, others more simplistic.

"Right then, mates," Ghost started, sheathing his combat knife. In an instant, the men and women before him straightened their backs, giving him their full attention. Good. He won't have to explain this business twice. "I've seen a few of you blokes measuring dick lengths, but size doesn't mean a dog's arse if you cant aim worth shit."

A few of the women openly giggled at the men, some of whom turned red in embarrassment. Ghost ignored it.

"For those of you who brought firearms of any kind..." the lieutenant paused, staring perplexed at a girl who held a bow. "...Or any kind of ranged weaponry for that matter, Roach here," he clapped a hand on the sergeant's shoulder, "will be giving you the exam of your career. Now, as long as you don't fail, things will be alright."

The lieutenant turned to the rest of the militia—the guys who brought in melee weapons "For those of you with hand weapons," he pointed a finger at them, "I'll be your judge, so show me what you've got."

Ghost took a step forwards, gesturing to the militia as a whole. "After we get that over with, we'll run a few combat scenarios to test your skills in the field, individually, and as a team. Keep in mind, starting from today, you're training is gonna get real. Once you're done with morning PT, this is where you'll be for the next four hours each day."

"Eh?"

The vocal utterance was loud amongst the silent platoon, so prominent that Ghost raised a mental eyebrow, regarding the speaker with the interest that a hawk would have for a fleeing mouse.

"What was that, Arc?" Ghost turned to the boy, Jaune Arc.

The blonde teen merely stared, horrified that _he_ had been the one to make such a sound. He licked his lips, struggling to find an answer to the LT's impromptu question. All he needed was a bit of confidence...that's right, confidence!

"Well, sir, I just, uh..." Welp, he fucked it up already...damn, those sunglasses were just so cool! "I couldn't help but notice that you said we're gonna be out here for _four hours every single day?_ Not that I'm questioning you or anything, uh, sir, but I mean, what exactly would we be doing that takes so long? I mean, don't get me wrong, it's just—"

"Easy, lad," the lieutenant stopped him, holding a hand up, "I was just getting to that." He motioned to the field behind him. "For four hours, you'll be doing nothing but honing your skills in combat. If you've got a rifle, you'll be training your firing techniques, stances and stability, accuracy, dexterity, agility, and reflexes. Those who know the ropes will be helping others with their techniques. Remember, teamwork.

"If you've got a blade, I'll be able to teach you the basics. I'm not gonna lie gents, I haven't worked much with spears nor axes, but I can teach balance, proper striking, and stances. From there, I can teach you what _not_ to do. You'll have to figure out the rest on your own."

He pointed to the ring-sized chalk squares. "When you ain't practicing your techniques, you'll be sparring with one another with wooden practice weapons, or running combat scenarios." He turned to the men and women with bows and rifles. "Sorry for you mates, but that means you'll be learning basic CQC in the form of hand-to-hand and knife arts, whether you like it or not. I don't want any of you loosing your wits when your rifle fails you. Understood?"

"Yes sir!" resounded throughout the field as the militia collectively agreed.

"Right then, that's all there is to it. Melee weapons on me, move!"

It was no more than fifteen minutes later that Jaune suddenly found himself standing before the intimidating figure of the LT himself. He had a feeling that he wasn't going to have a good time.

"You ready?" Ghost asked.

"Not really," is what Jaune wanted to say, but what came out was, "Bring it on!"

The lieutenant nodded at his 'fortitude'. "Let's put those skills to the test, then. Have at me, Arc!"

Steeling himself, Jaune let out a war cry as the blade of Crocea Mors descended on the LT with as much force as his one arm could give. His blade only met air as Ghost took a step back. Then, the world spun.

The lieutenant took advantage of the teen's imbalance in an instant, sending a kick to the boy's chest. The wind knocked from his lungs, Jaune heaved as he keeled over, his arms extended away from him, but before he could fall, Ghost caught the blonde's extended arms and used the weight of his armaments against him, pulling him into a hard knee to the chin.

Jaune saw stars as he fell to the ground, Crocea Mors releasing itself from his grasp.

_Pain. I'm in pain._

Shit, did some of his teeth just get knocked out? He hoped not, but he couldn't really feel the area where his jaw had been hit—there was only numb pain. He tried to sit up, but did so too quickly, black spots appearing in his vision. There was a thump as he fell back down.

"S-So much...for c-confidence."

The lieutenant only let out an exasperated heft. "Bloody hell, lad. Isn't your pops supposed to be a huntsman?"

Jaune groaned as Ghost pulled him to his feet. "Well, yeah. It's the reason why I want to be a huntsman in the first place. I mean, all of my ancestors were warriors, so I wanted to be one too—a hero, I mean...Wait, how do you know my dad?"

Ghost ignored his question. "...And your pops didn't train you?"

Jaune rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "Weeeeellll, my dad's super busy all the time, so I don't really have any type of training. At all. Whatsoever." At Ghost's inquisitive stare, he continued. "But! But, I was hoping that joining the militia could be my chance to get some training, y'know?"

"Christ on a bicycle..." Ghost muttered. Jaune squirmed hearing his exasperated tone. "You're gonna need a _lot_ of training where you're going, lad."

The blonde slumped over, sighing. "Yeah. I figured."

There was a moment of awkward silence as the blonde and the operator stared at each other, unsure of what to say. Ghost shook his head in annoyance a moment later.

"We'll get this sorted out at a later date." The lieutenant took up another martial stance. "Evaluation ain't over yet though. Not by a long shot. Show me your worst, Arc."

On the inside, the lieutenant sighed. If this is the level of skill he's gonna be dealing with, then it's gonna be a _long_ time before any of these guys will be able to call themselves ready. He just hoped that it wouldn't take _too_ long.

Ghost idly wondered if Roach was doing any better. The massive, ear-rending explosion that came a few moments later told him _no._

VVVVV

Roach watched with a keen eye and crossed arms as one of the guys, Rusty, aimed a bolt-action rifle at a twenty meter target. Of what make the weapon was he had no idea, but the unstable way in which Rusty aimed it irritated the sergeant greatly. That rifle is gonna make his shoulder sore if he fires it like that. Regardless, Roach didn't say anything, for it was his job to evaluate and evaluate only. As such, the sergeant would do his best to evaluate each member of the militia.

He had set up a test where each man gets forty shots at a target from different stances and variable distances. Fifteen shots standing straight up, fifteen shots in a kneeling position, and ten in prone. Distances vary from twenty meters to a hundred meters.

It surely wasn't the greatest test, but with the limited resources they had, this would have to do. In order to pass the test with a marksman rating, twenty-five shots must hit. For a sharpshooter, thirty shots. For an expert, thirty-five. For an _operator?_ Forty out of forty. Now, that might seem insane, but keep in mind that these are static targets with variable distances from _only_ twenty to a hundred meters. Back in the task force, to get an expert rating, one must hit at _least _thirty-seven targets, one from a distance of three-hundred meters plus. Compared to that test, this one is a cakewalk.

There were a few problems with that, though. Some of the militia members had brought wooden and compound bows rather than firearms. Roach had to wing it, drawing up a separate test for those who brought such weapons—the archers. He reduced the total number of shots to fifteen, as well as restricted the stances to standing and kneeling only. He didn't know a lick about archery as pained as he was to admit it, so he hoped this would do.

The sergeant grunted in annoyance as he felt the sun's radiant light on his back. Ever since he'd become...like this, sunlight, rather, light in general had come to mildly irritate him. He tried to ignore it, but after awhile it got damn annoying. Lucky for him, the gear he wore covered every inch of his body, shielding him from those damn heat rays. His goggles were probably the greatest piece of equipment he could behold.

A sudden, _q__uiet_ bang signified Rusty taking his shot. Wait...

Roach watched with wide eyes as a bullet spiraled from the barrel of the rifle all the way to the target. The bullet! He saw the bullet! Why the fuck was it moving so slowly!? It took a whole _three fourths_ of a second to reach the target, even from a distance of only twenty meters! That was _massively_ subsonic! For fucks sake, an _air-soft gun was faster!_

Worse still, the sound of the rifle firing had been near silent compared to the likes of an M4. Okay, mild exaggeration, but still! What kind of powders were they packing? For a bullet to travel at such a slow speed, how could _any_ damage be done to the target?

Roach frowned as he scrutinized the target, then he froze. Disregarding the absolutely horrid aim that Rusty had exhibited, the bullet itself had managed to not only pierce through the paper target, it also made a sizable dent in the steel. _Impossible._

Such a low speed projectile wouldn't have had enough kinetic energy to make a dent in 1/4" of solid steel.

"Damn!" Rusty shouted suddenly. "Looks like I'm a little rusty, eh sir?" the orange-haired farmer quipped. Roach didn't laugh.

No, the sergeant was having an internal dilemma. He needed to see it again.

Roach signaled for the farmer to keep going.

"Er, yessir!"

For the next fifteen minutes, Roach observed with great interest as five other militia members fired their weapons, some of which were rifles, others of which were pistols. All came out the same, firing subsonic rounds yet still dealing ridiculous amounts of damage to the steel targets. How was this happening? He just couldn't understand...Unless!

"Ahem." Roach was snapped out of his musings by the next militia member, Ivy Strauss, the girl with the bow, and sister of Beryl Strauss. She had natural green hair and eyes, distinct among all the other odd hair colors of the people in this world. "I believe it's my turn to go, sir."

The sergeant shook his head and nodded to the girl, who gave him a short smile before stepping up to the range. Maybe he should just drop the topic for now and focus on completing evaluation. There were only a few people left to test after all. Perhaps he could get his hands on one of their guns to see what the firing mechanism is like, or possibly the bullets themselves. He knew Ghost would probably get more into this than he already is. The lieutenant is a gun-nut after all.

Clicking his mandibles in slight irritation, Roach watched as Ivy notched an arrow to her bow. Hmm, now that he got a better look at the girl, her form looked pretty decent. Her movements were fluid, and her stance was stable. There was no hesitation, no anxiousness indicative of an amateur. If Roach had to guess, Ivy probably went hunting for sport often.

The green-haired girl pulled the bowstring back, the sound of the arrow dragging along the wood of the bow smooth against the ears of all the spectators. There was a smile on the girl's face.

It was at that moment that Roach noticed something odd about the arrow itself. Rather than a standard arrowhead made of steel, stone, or wood, there was red crystal ball of sorts. It looked disturbingly familiar...

Where had he seen something like this? He could've sworn that that crystal was in one of the books he'd read at the library.

The sergeant licked his lips. The word was on the tip is tongue. It started with a 'd'...

Dust? Yeah, that's right, dust! The stuff these blokes use as a naturally occurring energy resource as well as explosives and propellants for their weapons!

...

...

...

Roach shrieked and lunged for the girl's bow. The smile on Ivy's face suddenly seemed much more sinister, all the more reason to stop her. What was she thinking!? That ball of dust was larger than a grenade! And although the kill radius of a grenade is only five meters, the casualty radius goes up to fifteen! Not only that, dust could be _much_ more powerful! Plus, the target was only twenty meters away!

The sergeant frantically grabbed at the girl's bow, but it was too late.

"Hey! Sir!? Wha—"

Thrown off course, the dust arrow went straight into the air like an FJM-148 Javelin, then came soaring back down. Panicked, Roach grabbed Ivy by the shoulders and dove away, the other militia members doing the same.

"Oh, SHIT—" Whomever had the time to utter such vulgar words was suddenly cut off as the arrow hit the ground, an explosion of _flames_ much larger than an old M67 could create going off right on top of the spot Roach and Ivy had just been standing in. The concussive force sent powerful winds in all directions, and smoking hot chunks of earth were sent into the air before plummeting back down ungracefully. A large fire burned away at whatever it could touch at ground zero, before slowly, inevitably fizzling out as flammable materials turned to ash.

"FUCK FUCK FUCK!" someone shouted, their shirt set aflame.

"Tuck and roll, Barton! Tuck and roll!"

"Dammit! What in the heck are you—off!"

"My bad, Roux!"

Roach grunted silently as he helped himself up, then looked around at the chaos. The militia members who had been affected were either rolling around on the floor or running into each other in the confusion. There was great deal of dust and smoke, and a crater had been formed at the edge of the range, scorch marks burned into the ground, the chalk line ruined.

"Ugh," Ivy moaned as she sat up next to him. When she opened her eyes, her jaw dropped. "Oh shit," she said simply. The sound of repeated foot-tapping made her blood freeze. She slowly turned to the sergeant and gazed up into those soulless goggles of his. She could practically _feel_ the glare burning a hole in her forehead. "H-Heh, whoops!"

SMACK!

The glove-shaped imprint on her cheek told her that the sergeant wasn't happy. "Ow," she pouted. "That's not fair! You didn't let me shoot the target! It would've been fine...probably."

The sergeant merely sighed. Well, at least he managed to find the explosive potential of dust. In fact, he might have a new theory on why those subsonic dust bullets did so much damage despite their slow speed...He'll have to discuss it with Ghost later.

For now, he'll need to get this mess sorted out. He sighed again, idly wondering if Ghost was doing any better.

VVVVV

Headmaster Ozpin took a long, slow sip from his freshly brewed mug of the finest coffee to have ever graced the world of Remnant. Specially grown in a small oasis at the eastern edge of the Mistralian Desert, these coffee beans have been aged for half a century, nurtured using a refined dust powder found only in the deepest Grimm caves of the cold, unforgiving Solitas mines. Once they've reached maturity, these beans are then shipped off to Vacuo, guarded by an electrical and gravitational field created by tested lightning and gravity dust crystals. Once the package is received, the beans are processed, ground into a powder, and mixed in with secret legendary catalysts that only a select few people in the world know. Finally, after weeks of preparation, the coffee is sent straight to Ozpin's doorstep, ready to be brewed every morning.

It was perfect. There was absolutely nothing that could possibly ruin this moment of peace and tranquility. Nothing.

THUMP!

...

The immortal wizard sighed and reached out to the small, invisible window on the side of the clock tower, then pulled it open. A small crow flew in, landing at the center of the room.

"You're quite the early bird this morning, Qrow."

The avian creature transformed in a burst of feathers, revealing the one and only, Qrow Branwen. He stumbled a bit to catch his bearings, then immediately reached for his hip flask, popping the quark.

"You sound like you don't want to see me." The avian huntsman took a sip of his own drink, the vile liquid burning down his throat.

"While I wouldn't quite put it like that, it would be preferable if you abstained from interrupting my coffee time." The headmaster turned away from Qrow and stared calmly at the rising sun. "Quite the view, wouldn't you say, Qrow? It's times like these that I truly wish to cherish."

Qrow frowned as his shoulders sagged. "Man, you need a hobby."

The short quip put a smile on Ozpin's face. "Perhaps..."

There was a comfortable silence that lasted about a minute, on account of Qrow downing the contents of his flask. It wasn't long before the huntsman found that said flask was empty. He shook it, miffed, before sticking back where it belonged, turning his full attention to the headmaster.

"Anyways, I'm here to pick up Sunshine. Any idea where she's at?"

The headmaster of Beacon Academy turned his slightly. "Amber has been practicing with the Maiden's powers in the Emerald Forest. She's done quite well thus far."

Qrow looked shocked. "You're letting her go in alone?" The Fall Maiden could be attacked at any time, anywhere, even as close as they are to Beacon Academy. It wouldn't surprise any of them if there was a spy among the students, which is why she is to be guarded at all times when on school grounds or in the city.

"Of course not," Ozpin replied. "Glynda is with her."

The avian huntsman groaned. "If the Grimm don't get to her first, then Glynda is going to work her to death."

Ozpin chuckled at that. "I'm sure Amber will be fine. She is the Fall Maiden after all...probably."

...

"Probably?"

"So," Ozpin started, that ever-present stoicism in his voice. "Have you anything to report, Qrow? How was your trip to Mistral?"

Qrow narrowed his eyes slightly at the headmaster's blatant deflection, but relented anyways.

"Whatever. Couldn't find much in Mistral, and the relic is doing fine. Lionheart is...well, Lionheart is Lionheart." He paused. "There was an incident on the way back though."

"Oh? Please, do tell."

"Yeah, there were these two guys. They had strange weapons and wore strange clothing, and they were skilled. Some Grimm were attacking them, and they managed to hold the horde off. One of em' got his arm torn off, and his buddy was protecting him. They called themselves Ghost and Roach. Obviously, they're code names. Said they were on a team called Bravo 6. Ever heard of them?"

Ozpin took another sip from his mug. "No, I don't think I have. They sound like they were in trouble. I do hope they are okay." He turned towards the avian huntsman, who was now resting his back against the wall, arms crossed. "Is that all?"

Qrow smirked. "Nope. The one that called himself Ghost, he wore a skull mask of some kind and a pair of sunglasses. It was kinda hard to see, but I know what I saw. He had the silver eyes."

"Really now?" Ozpin regarded the huntsman with renewed interest. "Interesting. Were you able to find out their goals? I imagine that, with the way you've described them, that they'd be quite difficult to talk to."

The avian huntsman shifted into a more comfortable position, such that he was facing the headmaster completely. "They were at first, but they opened up just a bit by the time we hit Ansel."

"You escorted them?"

"Yep," he replied, popping the 'p'. Then, he sighed. "They were betrayed, Oz. Ghost didn't tell me who he worked for, nor what his goals were, but I know that he and his buddy are lost and alone. They stayed behind in Ansel to catch their bearings. They're both just a big bundle of mysteries. I wasn't sure if I could trust them, and I'm still unsure, but I know they're good people...relatively at least."

Ozpin raised a brow. "What do you mean?"

Qrow licked his lips. "Ghost has a twisted philosophy about the world, but not in a bad way. He says that there are only three types of people. The neutral, the morally challenged, and the true evil. It's an unholy trinity. The neutral are like the civilians. The morally challenged are the greedy bastards, the power-mad, and, oddly enough, us huntsmen. And the true evil? He said that true evil is something that is felt and not quantified nor observed. It's only something you can know after experience."

Ozpin's interest grew by the minute. "So he's seen true evil. I am sad to say that I know how he feels." He paused and thought about what Qrow had said just a minute ago. "And what of the morally challenged? Why does he stick the do-gooders with the 'greedy bastards' as you said, Qrow?"

"Heh, here's the interesting part," Qrow said, taking a step to the center of the room. "He considers himself and his buddy along with all of us protectors morally challenged because in a perfect world, we don't exist. In a world where there is no crime, no evil, there aren't any peacekeepers around because there is no _need_ for peacekeepers. In a perfect world, only the neutral exist. Happy, ignorant civilians at every block. Then he said that it was just a pipe dream, that a perfect world will never come to be." He looked straight into Ozpin's eyes. "He said that's why he and his buddy fight. I don't know about you, but I think they're okay."

The headmaster of Beacon Academy was impressed. The philosophy was, as Qrow had said, twisted, certainly, but not in a bad way. This Ghost sounded like the kind of person that would do whatever is necessary to win. He sounded like he does what he does for the greater good. And, as a plus, he had the silver eyes. Perfect.

"Ghost and Roach, was it? Did you see an insignia on their clothing? Perhaps a symbol of their army?"

Qrow pursed his lips. "Yeah, they had these patches with some kind of flag on them. They also had an emblem, like a skull above a sword that had wings on either side. Doesn't sound too friendly, does it?"

"Interesting," Ozpin mused, tapping his cane idly. "If they've been betrayed recently, they probably won't be too amicable or willing to join another organization so soon, but...they would be the perfect operators out in the field. Were they huntsmen?"

Qrow scoffed. "Nah, they were soldiers."

"I see...then they are probably more fit for tasks involving stealth and infiltration. With no ties to anyone, nobody would question their whereabouts when working in the field. Masked and nameless as they are, they would be unidentifiable...untraceable," the headmaster muttered. "Qrow, when you take Amber on her journey this week, be sure to stop by Ansel. Perhaps you can persuade them into joining our cause."

Qrow gaped. "Really? That fast? You haven't even met them yet, how can you be so sure?"

"Well, Qrow. We are fighting a war. And in war, you need soldiers at the front lines, do you not?"

"...Fine," Qrow conceded. "I'll see what I can do."

"Excellent."

VVVVV

**A/N: Okay, yes, I've been gone for a month, but I've a totally reasonable explanation for that...! I don't actually, apologies. I was just lazy, and when Doom Eternal came out, I had a fangasm and played the game for, well, a month. Then, online school hit me like a truck so I was stuck doing work most of the time.**

**FYI, this chapter has been rewritten seven times before I settled on this version. Just another reason why it's so late. Also, I'm sorry if the quality is a little on the downside. I'm not the best when it comes to character interactions, but I can make do.**

**Anyhow, enjoy the chapter.**

**Sir Yeetus Deletus, signing off.**


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